What if Saddam Hussein WAS hiding weapons of mass destruction after 9/11…but of a kind no-one could ever have guessed at…...

Synopsis

In 1997, an Iraqi farmer ploughs up a mysterious object made
from a substance previously unknown to science. Five years
later, US spy satellites detect a huge, unidentified
installation in course of construction over the spot where it
was found. It looks like Saddam is up to something; but what?
International concern mounts until finally an SAS unit under
Major Mike Hartman is sent into Iraq to find out just what is
going on at Quarat, and stop it. But nothing in their
training could have prepared Hartman and his men for what is
lurking within the complex; for nothing else could give
Saddam the power to be master of the world, and if
incalculable disaster is to be avoided they must face a
deadly alliance between a ruthless, power-crazed military
dictatorship and a supernatural force which could devastate
the entire planet.






THE ISHTAR STRATAGEM




Guy Blythman





(c) Guy Blythman 2002, 2010









NOTE: This is the final edited version









ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book required a hell of a lot of research on all sorts of subjects, and there are a great many people I have to thank for their assistance. Valuable advice was given by Darren Liddle, John Sharp, Dr Dominique Collon of the British Museum, Jonty Stern and his contacts, Shaz Ney, Anna Lankford of NASA, Frieda Landau, Navid Siddiqui and Andrew Colquhoun of the Imperial War Museum. The time and trouble everyone took is much appreciated.

Where controversial issues have any bearing on the plot or on characterisation I have tried to be balanced; and it is crucial for me to stress that any views that are expressed are the characters' own and not those of my contacts.

From "The Epic Of Gilgamesh: The Babylonian Epic Poem and Other Texts in Akkadian and Sumerian", translated and with an introduction by Andrew George, The Penguin Press 1999:

Tablet VI
5 - VI 160

On the beauty of Gilgamesh Lady Ishtar looked with longing:
"Come, Gilgamesh, be you my bridegroom!
Grant me your fruits, O grant me!
Be you my husband and I your wife!

"Let me harness you a chariot of lapis lazuli and gold,
its wheels shall be gold and its horns shall be amber.
Driving lions in a team and mules of great size,
enter our house amid the sweet scent of cedar!

"As you enter our house
doorway and footstool shall kiss your feet!
Kings, courtiers and nobles shall kneel before you,
produce of mountain and lowland they shall bring you as tribute!

"Your goats shall bear triplets, your ewes shall bear twins,
your donkey when laden shall outpace any mule!
Your horse shall gallop at the chariot in glory,
no ox shall match yours at the yoke!"

Gilgamesh opened his mouth to speak,
saying to the Lady Ishtar:
"And if indeed I take you in marriage,
whence would come my food and my sustenance?
Would you feed me bread that is fit for a god,
and pour me ale that is fit for a king?"

"Who is there would take you in marriage?
You, a frost that congeals no ice,
a door that stays not breeze nor draught...
...a shoe that bites the foot of its owner!
What bridegroom of yours did endure for ever?
What brave warrior of yours went up to the heavens?

"Come, let me tell you the tale of your lovers..
Dumuzi, the lover of your youth,
year upon year to lamenting you doomed him.
"You loved the speckled allallu-bird,
but struck him down and broke his wing:
You loved the lion, perfect in strength,
but for him you dug seven pits and seven.

"You loved the horse, so famed in battle,
but you made his destiny a seven-league gallop,
you made his destiny to drink muddy water,
and doomed Silili his mother to perpetual weeping.

"You loved the shepherd, the grazier, the herdsman,
who gave you piles of loaves baked in embers,
and slaughtered kids for you day after day.
"You struck him and turned him into a wolf,
now his very own shepherd boys chase him away,
and his dogs take bites at his haunches.

"You loved Ishullanu, your father's gardener,
who used to bring you dates in a basket,
You eyed him up and went to meet him...
"O my Ishullanu, let us taste your vigour:
Put out your hand and stroke my quim."

But Ishullanu said to you:
"Me! What do you want of me?
Did my mother not bake? Have I not eaten,
that now I should eat the bread of slander and insults?

"When you heard what he had said,
you struck him down and turned him into a dwarf...
Must you love me also and deal with me likewise?"

PART ONE

PROLOGUE

QUARAT, IRAQ
JANUARY 22nd 1997
It was a very different culture; however, in Iraq as in the West what you thought was going to be another ordinary, uneventful day could turn out to be anything but.
Immediately after rising at dawn Tabriz and his family washed, dressed, said their prayers, and then sat down to breakfast together. It was a simple, comforting routine which had served them and their ancestors for over a thousand years, and as long as Allah were willing would do so for a thousand more.
The tiny mud-walled house where the forty-three year-old farmer lived with his wife Shereen and their two sons had no TV, no electricity and no sanitation, but they were happy with it. It was fortunate that the absence of television, a media which in any case was strictly controlled by the government, meant they had no knowledge of what life was like in the West, or the contrast between its affluence and their state of near poverty might have caused considerable resentment. They did of course have one vital prop denied to many Westerners; the strength they derived from their religion. The harshness of life made Tabriz and his like a hardy breed in any case, and their faith gave them an additional boost by enabling them to believe in an afterlife in which they would be compensated for the grinding toil that so characterised this one.
As soon as the meal was finished Tabriz and his sons started work. While the two boys were driving the cattle from their shed, a simple square block built from mud bricks, into the field to graze Tabriz climbed onto the seat of his ageing and rusty Fordson tractor - the only thing on the premises which could be regarded as a concession to modernity - and started the engine. It coughed, spluttered, almost died, then started up again with a steady, rumbling growl. He hitched the plough to the back of the tractor, drove the vehicle out of its shed and into the field.
He had not been at work for long when the tractor lurched backwards suddenly, a violent tremor running through its bodywork. It shot back and forth, shaking and rattling furiously until he feared the ancient vehicle would fall to pieces. Most probably it or the plough had hit an obstacle, some hard object buried in the soil. A rock or large stone, he assumed. He cut the engine and clambered down to take a look.
He studied the ground around each of the tractor's wheels but could see nothing. He went to the plough, squatting down beside it - and something sticking out from under one of the blades, protruding several inches from the brown earth, caught his eye. A rounded surface about a foot across off which the morning sunshine gleamed brilliantly.
Fascinated, Tabriz shuffled over to examine it. He grasped it with one hand and pulled, but it remained firmly stuck in the ground, budging barely a fraction. Two hands made no difference.
Obviously the thing was part of a much bigger object which had become deeply buried. He noted that the blade of the plough was badly twisted where it had struck it; it must be pretty hard.
It was white and faintly luminous, unless that was the sun shining on it. Peering at it closely, he saw it was shot through with little dark lines that formed intricate, vein-like patterns. It looked to him like some kind of gemstone; he and his fellow farmers did plough them up occasionally. But this one was much larger than any he had come across so far.
Touching it gently, he found it smooth, cold and slightly wet. Wet? He didn't see how that could be, since the soil all around it was perfectly dry.
Tabriz was puzzled but also delighted. This was something very special. And it was he who had found it. His excitement growing, he continued scraping away soil and mud from the object. In a quarter of an hour or so, he had laid bare a portion about five feet square. He saw that it curved gently downwards, suggesting that a considerable bulk still lay buried. He might have to dig for days in order to uncover it all.
Tabriz stood looking at the object for some minutes, trying to work out what to do with it. It wasn't a problem; he could simply plough round it if necessary. It might, however, be an asset.
What was it? And where had it come from? Perhaps...perhaps a gift from God? But to be a gift, it had to be of some use. He couldn't eat it.
He ran off to tell his family. They got a few of their friends together, one or two of whom tried to cut into the object with their tools. Tabriz told them severely not to damage it, but he needn't have worried; they were unable to make the slightest impression on it, no matter how hard they tried.
It was something strange and wonderful and it was his. He supposed it must be valuable, that it could make him a wealthy man. But if he was to make best use of it, he had to know what it was. It might be something important, something the rulers of his country ought to know about. If it was a sign from heaven...they must find someone who would know.
Before the day was out, the news had gone all round the village.

MARCH 14th, 1997
NEAR QUARAT, Iraq
The goatherd stood casting a watchful eye over his flock, one gnarled hand resting on the head of his wooden staff. It was a scene which had not changed much in centuries.
Yes; these people lived a simple, if sometimes harsh, pastoral life where, hard work though it often was, the pace of things was slow, giving you more time to reflect on things. The goatherd felt at peace with himself. The only sound which reached his ears at that moment on this hot summer's day was the tinkling of the bells tied round the animals' necks.
Then his lean body stiffened as he caught the sound of a motor vehicle, drifting to him through the still desert air. He surveyed the flat arid landscape around him until he saw the smoke trail bowling along the horizon.
He followed it, vaguely interested to see if it would change direction. In a while it did and his heartbeat quickened a little. The vehicle was coming towards him, along the rough earthen track which led to the village.
The goats followed him as he walked to the edge of the road, only just passable as one, where he stopped and waited for the vehicle to reach him. Gradually the moving black shape resolved itself into an Army jeep with two olive-clad, bereted figures sitting in it. He was about to hail it when he saw it was slowing.
The jeep bumped and shuddered along the uneven trackway. It drew up alongside him and the soldier in the passenger seat leaned out.
"The Kurds. Have you seen them?"
"No, I'm sorry. I haven't seen any Kurds. I don't think they came this way." Immediately he lost the soldier's attention. "But there is something I must tell you," he said urgently. The soldier looked at him with renewed interest.
Excitedly he told his story. The soldier frowned and glanced uncertainly at his companion, an older man with greying hair and moustache. Then back at the goatherd, noting the intelligent eyes which blazed in the old man’s wrinkled brown face. They didn’t get the impression he was a fool.
They might as well take a look; if it came to something, they wouldn't then have had a completely wasted journey.
"Where is this village?"
"In a few minutes you will come to a crossroads. Take the track to the left and it will not be long before you see it."
The soldiers grunted their thanks, and the driver started up the engine and trod on the accelerator. The old man watched it lurch away for a moment, then went back to his flock.
When the soldiers turned up at his house Tabriz immediately abandoned his meal and went to meet them. As the servants of Saddam Hussein they deserved by extension something of the adulation he gave his beloved leader. He ushered them into the little living room where Shereen sat weaving. The two boys were out helping in the field.
This one room took up almost the whole of the building; there was no upper floor. They lived here, ate here, slept here. The furniture consisted of a crude wooden table and several chairs. On one bare wall was a photograph of Saddam, which beamed down paternally at the family whenever they ate.
His visitors didn't spend that much time in friendly greeting, but got down to business straight away. They told him why they were there. "I hear it burnt your wife's hand. May we see?"
Tabriz nodded to his wife, and dutifully she held out her hand, the palm upward. It was a mass of glistening pink flesh bordered by ragged strips of blackened, flaking skin.
"Is it healing?" asked the older soldier, the officer.
"Yes, slowly." She shuddered at the memory. "It was very painful at first."
The officer turned back to Tabriz. "You also said she was ill."
"For a while she felt faint. And she was sick a few times. But she's better now."
The officer nodded curtly. "Now I think we had better see the…the object."
"Of course." Leaving Shereen to her weaving, Tabriz led them round the corner of the house to the little plot of ground from which he made his living. They saw the object immediately, standing out sharply against the rusty brown earth.
They came up to it, and for a few moments stared in fascination.
"It looks luminous to me," the officer said. "Is it?"
Tabriz told him the object had continued to shine after dark, giving off a silvery light which was visible for quite a distance. Mindful of Shereen's experience, the officer touched it very gently with the tip of his finger. To his astonishment it was still cold, and yet according to Tabriz it had been exposed to the baking heat of the sun for some considerable time. He pressed down hard with the palm of his hand and felt a slight tingling sensation, as if the object carried an electric charge.
He nodded to his subordinate, who produced a knife and a small polythene bag. The soldier scraped the blade of the knife roughly against the object.
It left no mark. But a few particles of white, so small as to be barely visible, had come away and stuck to the blade. The soldier dropped the tool into the bag.
"Was there any damage to the blade of the plough?"
"Yes, it bent it quite badly. It is hard, whatever it is. More than the very slightest touch, and...I've never seen anything like it before."
"We've done all we need to for the time being," the officer told Tabriz. "When we have examined the samples perhaps we will be able to say what it is. Thankyou for your time; I am sure you will be well rewarded for it."

BAGHDAD, IRAQ
5TH MAY 1997
In a spacious, thickly-carpeted office General Khalid Fawzieh stood before a desk on which lay the report that had just come from the chemists who had been examining the particles of material taken from the object Tabriz had ploughed up.
"I don't want anyone to know about this," said the man behind the desk.
"I don't think we need worry about the villagers, Mr President. They are simple farmers, they have no interest in or understanding of science. Or politics, for that matter."
His leader fixed him with a hard stare. "No-one must know about this," he repeated. "Do you understand?"
For the briefest of moments it looked as if Fawzieh was about to protest. Then he nodded. "Yes, Mr President."
"Then see to it," ordered Saddam Hussein.

QUARAT, IRAQ
6TH MAY 1997
Early in the morning, just after work had started in the fields, the first of the lorries arrived. Nine in all turned up during the next few minutes, each of them packed full of soldiers. The villagers assumed they were looking for Kurds again, although there were a lot more of them this time.
They had the villagers' full support. Everyone knew that Kurds were bad; they knew because Saddam had said so.
Two jeeps with half-a-dozen soldiers in them were stationed beside each of the roads leading out of the village, while more soldiers patrolled the terrain between them. It was obvious they meant to monitor everyone going into or out of the little settlement.
Once this had been done the remaining soldiers proceeded to visit every house in the village and interview the occupants. They wanted to know if there was anyone normally resident in Quarat who was currently absent. Yes there were a few, people who had gone on expeditions to neighbouring villages to market their produce or visit relatives. The soldiers nodded and left. They returned to their jeeps and stayed there, evidently intending to wait until the absentees returned.
The headman of the village had insisted that no Kurds were being sheltered in Quarat. "You may be right, but you will understand that we need to make sure," smiled the colonel in charge.
The mood of the villagers was primarily one of curiosity, mixed with indignation. Gradually, though, a vague feeling of unease started to creep in. But it remained unspoken; they wouldn't have known how to express it, verbally or any other way.
The soldiers bided their time. By the fourth day, everyone was accounted for. On that morning a proclamation was issued by the colonel ordering all the villagers, men women and children, to stop whatever they were doing and assemble on a patch of waste ground just outside the village. The people were puzzled, and beneath their puzzlement the undercurrent of unease was now stronger. But they obeyed all the same.
They made their way to the designated assembly point, the armed soldiers all the time flanking the crowd, their guns at the ready in case of trouble.
It took an hour or so for a few of the soldiers to search the village and establish to their satisfaction that there was no-one left unaccounted for. They rejoined their comrades at the waste ground, where the villagers were shifting nervously, unsettled by the vagueness of the soldiers' answers to their questions. Some were angry, but trying hard not to show it. A few of the children had picked up the waves of fear emanating from their parents and started to cry.
The villagers were now encircled by a ring of thirty or forty armed soldiers.
The men who had carried out the search went up to the colonel in charge and saluted. He returned the salute and ordered them to join the soldiers standing in a circle around the population of Quarat. Once they had done so, his gaze swept round his troops. Then he barked out an order.
Forty rifles were raised, aimed and fired.
The air was filled with the screams of the dying. Bodies jerked and twisted like spastic marionettes, fountains of blood spurting
from them as they danced about crazily.
Tabriz died about a couple of minutes into the carnage. When he realised what was happening his reaction was not so much one of fear as confusion followed by a cold feeling of horror and disbelief.
By the time the instinct for self-preservation kicked in it was too late for any of them, even supposing they could have broken through the cordon of troops. Those not already dead shouted to their families to run, as they prepared to do the same. But the gathering had become a jumbled mass of bodies falling against and sliding down one another. Trying to force a way through it, they only succeeded in entangling themselves hopelessly. A few were crushed to death but most died from the hail of bullets that ripped into them. Tabriz had time to shout out his wife's name once before something exploded wetly inside him and he felt a clammy warmth spread through his body. The strength drained from him and he crumpled weakly to the ground. One final emotion surged through him, becoming uppermost in his mind; anger. Maybe some of the others had time to feel it too.
Convulsively his fingers clawed at the bloodstained earth beside him, digging deep into it. For the briefest of moments a certain light blazed in his eyes. It was the sign of a child suddenly grasping the full truth of something of which it has had for a long time had only the vaguest suspicion. And then it was gone.
The soldiers continued to blaze away until their ammunition was exhausted; the simplest way of making sure they had done their job. They pumped bullets into the bodies even after they had collapsed limply to the ground. Those which had been twitching twitched no longer.
The thirty-foot high cut-out figure of Saddam which marked the entrance to the village looked down smilingly on the carnage.
After a few minutes the commander called a halt. He issued more orders and, reloading their rifles, four or five of the soldiers walked among the bodies examining them carefully and shooting through the head any who seemed to be still alive. Their leader wanted no chances to be taken.
Once he was satisfied the job had been done the colonel set his men to work digging up the adjoining field, excavating a pit about thirty feet in diameter and ten deep. Into this the bodies were tipped like empty sacks, then the pit was filled in.
All but a few of the soldiers then departed. A couple of hours later the heavy equipment was moved in, and the job of clearance began, under the supervision of the remaining soldiers. The bulldozers tore down the mud-walled houses with ease and their caterpillar tracks ground the debris into powder. Not a block was left standing; of the village of Quarat, there remained only dust. It was as if the settlement and its inhabitants had never existed. Only the strange crystalline object remained, sticking a few feet above the ground.
Saddam Hussein did not expect anyone outside his own entourage would find out what he had done. If they did, he could always blame it on the Kurds. If not the Kurds, the West. And if not the West, there was always the Jews.
And eventually, if the object at Quarat was what he thought it was, he wouldn't have to blame anybody for what he did. Or worry about what they might do to him.
Ever.

ONE
LONDON, ENGLAND
5 JANUARY 2002
Caroline Angela Mary Kent, B.Sc, sat at her desk in her office at the British headquarters of International Petroleum PLC and gazed round it reflecting on her life so far, for the most part with satisfaction.
For five years now she had worked for the company in one capacity or another. She'd joined it shortly after leaving university, having spent a brief period trying to become an actress, which had come to nothing not because she lacked talent but rather because she had decided success in business would be more of an achievement. Acting would have brought fame, but no more or less than it had other women. And so had begun a distinguished career at IPL in which she had risen with astonishing rapidity up its hierarchy, to reach her current position of head of the amalgamated Personnel - she had so far resisted any pressure to call it "Human Resources" - and Public Relations departments a couple of years ago at the age of twenty-five. It was a considerable responsibility which some had feared she would not be able to discharge competently, but she had proved them all wrong. Not everyone liked her, which was something she had to get used to, but they had to admit, openly or otherwise, that unlike a lot of other young highflyers she was actually good at her job; very good, in fact.
In addition to running PPR she was also one of a number of IPL executives around the world who functioned as International Operations Managers - basically, troubleshooters - which meant she got to visit plenty of exotic and interesting places. And, from time to time, found herself in genuinely dangerous and frightening situations. Many of the company's plants were in unstable Third World countries, prone to coups d'etat and terrorist activity. But you had to take the rough with the smooth.
Altogether, then, things had turned out well. She did have some regrets, but there was no question of changing the course on which her life seemed to have become set.
Brushing a lock of golden hair from one eye she perused her diary for that day; most of it would be spent liaising with other departments on the preparation of promotional brochures and the tactics to be adopted for recruitment drives. But there was also the new temp starting work in Admin; she'd look in on the girl at some time if her workload permitted. It was one of Caroline's cardinal principles that she should be available to all members of staff, however lowly, who technically worked for her. Normally their immediate manager would handle any problems that came up, there was always the possibility she might find herself functioning as a last court of appeal. She had made clear when taking up the PPR post that she wanted things that way, at the expense of upsetting some who saw their departments as their own private little empires in which their word was law and no outside agency could interfere.
She had also stressed that no casual employee was to be taken on, or have their employment terminated, without first consulting her. She had come to realise that in the modern world casuals constituted a vulnerable and forgotten underclass, whose existence and needs were usually overlooked while women, the disabled, and ethnic minorities could be guaranteed to receive close attention. They tended to be engaged on a whim and then sacked for silly or unjust reasons, and the thought that games might be played with people's lives in this way, in a concern of which she was the head, disturbed her. And from the company's point of view, as well as the altruistic one, casuals ought to matter as much as the oldest of old hands; after all, you never knew where they might be in ten or twenty years' time, if properly encouraged. Making herself known personally to them was a way of emphasising that point.
Of course Amanda Jane Dixon - that was the new temp's name - might not want to stay with the company in the long run. That was entirely up to her.
There came a knock on the door and Chris Barrett, her deputy in PR matters, entered. "Morning Caz," he said cheerfully. She greeted this salutation with a long-suffering expression; she had repeatedly asked him not to call her "Caz."
With the exception of old Bob Henderson, who could get away with anything, Chris was the only member of staff whom she allowed, albeit grudgingly, to address her with such familiarity.
"Morning, Mr Barrett," she answered. "What can I do for you?"
Chris stood before her with a rather foolish grin on his face. He ran a hand through his wavy dark hair.
"Don't keep me in suspense," she urged.
"Er...I was going to say, I'm afraid I haven't quite finished that report you asked me to do on the Venezuela job," he admitted.
Caroline tutted. "I did ask you to have it ready for me this morning."
"I was very busy last night," he protested.
"You mean you spent most of it down the pub. I know you!"
"You didn't actually say it was urgent. Anyway, it was my brother's birthday.”
"No wonder you're so tired whenever you come in in the morning," she went on. "You really should organise your life a bit better."
"Jawohl," said Chris.
"Just get it done as soon as you can, will you?"
He gave her a thumbs-up and withdrew, shrugging as he closed the door after him. As always, an encounter with Caroline left him with a bewildering mixture of feelings.
Caroline decided to go and pay her respects to Amanda Dixon. She strolled briskly over to Administration, a roomy open-plan office located on the same floor as PPR, whose windows allowed a panoramic view of the London skyline from Hounslow all the way to Canary Wharf.
As she entered the room, and they caught sight of her, several of the male employees held their gaze a fraction or two longer than one normally did. She grinned inwardly at the thought that even though she’d been here for six years now, her appearance could still turn heads.
She stood craning her neck to look out over the vista of heads in search of any that were unfamiliar. Her eye rested on a girl in her late teens who stood at a filing cabinet rummaging through its contents.
Caroline studied her with interest. She had fair skin and long, dark brown hair framing a rather sweet face. Not particularly tall but slim, with a good figure. She's pretty, Caroline thought. Could be a model or an actress, assuming she doesn't want to stay on here.
She went over to the girl. "Hello!" she smiled. "I guess you must be Amanda, yes?"
Amanda Dixon looked up. She seemed startled at being spoken to in this way. She grinned, a little nervously; but the hazel eyes, Caroline noted, did not change their expression. Nor did she make any comment in reply to the approach.
"Amanda?" Caroline repeated.
"Mandy," said the girl, a little curtly. Caroline frowned.
"I'm Caroline Kent, Head of Personnel." Caroline held out her hand; the girl studied it as if it were something strange and fascinating then suddenly jerked into life and shook it.
"I just thought I’d introduce myself. My office is on this floor at the other end of the building if you have any problems while you're here, although you'd normally go to Mr Watson-Dove if you did. All right?"
Mandy beamed vacuously.
"Well, I hope you're going to be with us for a long time." Again that almost embarrassed smile. Caroline waited a second or two in case the girl decided to elaborate upon it, and when she didn't smiled back and turned away.
Hmmm, she thought. Mandy was casual in more ways than one. Somehow, she didn't think the girl would be staying on here for very long.
She couldn’t possibly have imagined, at that stage, how significant the arrival of Amanda Dixon at IPL would turn out to be - both for she, Caroline, and indirectly millions of other people too.

On the top floor of the Langley, Virginia, headquarters of the US Central Intelligence Agency, about halfway along the central corridor on the left hand side, was located the organisation's Department of Middle Eastern Affairs. It was here that regular meetings were held between intelligence chiefs and defence analysts to discuss threats to American interests originating from that part of the world, which essentially meant two things: Saddam Hussein's Iraq, and the decentralised terrorist network which looked to Osama Bin Laden as its spiritual head.
At nine-thirty that morning, January 10th 2002, the room was occupied by four people two of whom - Aaron Sternhold, head of the Agency's Office of Scientific and Weapons Research, and Howard Loomis from its Office of Middle Eastern Analysis - sat in chairs before the screen which took up most of one wall. The other two were seated separately from them on either side of the room. On the left was Patrick Lerpiniere, the Agency's Deputy Director of Intelligence; on the right, Dr Theodore Malikian.
Malikian was not, strictly speaking, a CIA employee; he was in fact a lecturer at Cornell University. But he was an authority on the politics of the Middle East and also, handily, a weapons expert. He had gained valuable experience in that field inspecting certain dubious installations in Iraq for the United Nations. At the present time this made him extremely important to the Agency, and he visited its premises so frequently that he had come to be regarded as an honorary member of the organisation.
Finishing his customary words of welcome, Lerpiniere nodded to Malikian. As he got up to speak all eyes turned to him, lighting up with interest. He was not a big man, but his presence was nonetheless curiously impressive. Behind enormous metal-framed spectacles, which rested on the bridge of a somewhat beaky nose, his pale grey eyes gleamed with intelligence and twinkled with good humour whenever he cracked a joke. He was fifty-six years old with a heavily lined face and a shock of dark hair greying at the temples.
"OK, everyone," he began. "As you'll all of course know, ever since it invaded Kuwait in 1990 leading to the Gulf war, and particularly after 11th September, we have been carrying out regular satellite surveillance of Iraq. It's important for us to know if Saddam is engaged in any large-scale projects which might have a military application."
And especially, anything involving the development or use of Weapons Of Mass Destruction.
The Agency suspected Iraq had been speeding up its development of such weapons, a process which had begun before the Gulf War, ever since its defeat in that conflict had shown it could not take on the West and win using conventional weaponry. It was thought to have been stockpiling biological agents such as aflatoxin, anthrax and botulism, and indeed had once claimed to have enough of them to wipe out the Earth's entire population. The analysts hoped that was merely another characteristic attempt to taunt and frighten the West. As far as was known, the delivery systems for these bioweapons were still relatively crude and inefficient, but that was something Saddam was no doubt seeking to remedy.
Iraq had used chemical weapons against its own citizens and in the war with Iran which had taken up most of the 1980s. "We shouldn't have ignored the warning," Patrick Lerpiniere was continually complaining. It had produced thousands of tons of mustard and nerve gas, and although much of the stockpile had been destroyed by the UN Special Commission For Iraq (UNSCOM) during its various visits to the country, it was believed to have been replenished since.
Where atomic weapons were concerned Iraq certainly had the theoretical capability of building a nuclear bomb, and perhaps the raw materials, or some of them. At present, the general consensus of opinion among Western experts was that she had almost reached the point of full nuclear capability but still lacked one or two of the vital ingredients, partly due to the efforts of inspectors from the International Atomic Energy Authority. It was difficult to know the truth of the matter, thanks to her campaign of evasion and subterfuge. Despite frequently promising to destroy her weapons of mass destruction, she had as frequently threatened to use them against the West. At one stage she claimed to have destroyed her pilot atomic waste reprocessing plant to hide the programme from the IAEA. This was a typical tactic of the Saddam regime; most of the time it insisted its actions were virtuous and reasonable, but when it suited it to do so it admitted to having been deceitful as a way of misleading and confusing its opponents. It increased the anger and distrust those in the room felt towards Saddam Hussein.
Because of the demise of UNSCOM, due to bureaucratic factors, inadequate intelligence and the failure of Allied bombing, despite much-vaunted technical advances, to completely destroy installations which could be used for weapons construction and development the West simply could not be certain that Saddam Hussein didn't possess, and was on the point of perfecting, WMDs; which could be used against it, or Israel, or Iraq's own ethnic minorities. They were in a state of constantly having to guess as to how serious the situation was. Particularly worrying was the possibility that Saddam might soon have radiological weapons which could irradiate vast areas in order to prevent Western armies from occupying them. If America was ever to invade Iraq as part of its war against terrorism it needed to be sure what kind of threat it was going to meet. Saddam could be keeping any weapons he did have in reserve, in case of such an eventuality.
Lerpiniere switched on the overhead projector. "Just recently, one of our satellites found this, about fifty miles south-west of Baghdad."
An image appeared on the screen. The quality, as with all satellite photos, wasn't one hundred percent. The picture was grainy and hazy. But it was obvious a large building, a very large building, was under construction. Although it was surrounded by a complex network of scaffolding the principal details could be made out clearly. The main part was a rectilinear cube about three storeys high, and at present roofless. There were numerous window openings on each of the three floors and some of them were massive, thirty or forty feet long, as if designed to let in as much light as possible. At three corners of the main building was a smaller cube in the same state of completion but with far fewer windows. Joined to the fourth by a short connecting section was a massive, solid windowless block of a structure with a large opening, big enough to accommodate a petrol tanker, in one of its sloping sides. Several other incomplete buildings were located at intervals nearby. A number of indistinct shapes were dotted about in the background; at a guess the larger ones were heavy vehicles, trucks and earthmovers and cranes and piledrivers, and the smaller ones people. "It doesn't look very dangerous to me," said Loomis. "It could be anything. I saw a water treatment plant in England once that looked like that."
"I'm a little concerned about this." Malikian indicated the square block at the north-eastern corner of the complex. "It doesn't have any windows and it's pretty solidly built. It could be a fuel bunker, or a place where something flammable is kept. That wouldn't necessarily mean anything sinister. The other ancillary buildings could be for administration or storage purposes.
"As you indicated, Howard, the place looks like any reasonably large modern building. My gut feeling is it's a research establishment of some kind, in which case we'll need to know what's being developed there. Of course if soldiers start to appear and it's clear tight security is being maintained, we'll know it's something militarily important.
"The thing is this. Up until a few months ago there was a village on that spot. Now it's totally disappeared. The satellite detected troop movements in the vicinity - not on a particularly big scale, but big enough for it to notice them. These things can't see everything that goes on on the ground, not in minute detail, but it's obvious something happened to the villagers. Either they were evacuated or they were all killed in some fashion. Then the Iraqis razed the place to the ground, and now they're building this."
He paused, his gaze travelling over his companions. "Any ideas?"
"You're suggesting Saddam's troops massacred those villagers?" asked Sternhold. "Would he really do that to his own people? I mean, we all know what he's been doing to the Kurds, but he doesn't consider them to be his people. These are ordinary Iraqis we're talking about, I presume?"
"Yes, these are ordinary Iraqis. And if it suited his purposes, and no-one was likely to find out what had happened, Saddam would be quite happy to kill them all. This is a regime with a very cynical view of politics, and not much regard for the sanctity of human life, in whatever form. Saddam has been damaging his own citizens quite enough as it is, by provoking us into bombing him." There was cold anger in Malikian's voice. "He didn't want the word to get around that he'd ruthlessly turned them out of their homes. All he needed to do was blame their deaths on someone else and with complete control of the media that was easy to do."
Lerpiniere sat down, and threw himself back in his chair. "The question is, why did he bother with the whole business? He had to get rid of the villagers and pull down their homes in order to build this place. He wanted it built there, and nowhere else. Now why's that?"
"I can think of only one possibility. There's something in the area that's important to him. Perhaps he's discovered some kind of rare mineral in the ground and this installation is for processing it into something he can use."
"In connection with his nuclear weapons programme?"
"Quite likely. At any rate it's something he would rather was kept secret. That's why the villagers had to die. Although we don't know for sure that's what's happened to them."
Lerpiniere's brow had corrugated. "I must say I don't like this. But I don't feel we can do anything until we have more information. We've already increased our intelligence effort in relation to Iraq as much as is feasible. Apart from that, we can only wait until the place is a bit more complete, and see what the photographs have to tell us."
"What are the chances that it's for some civilian purpose? That it's entirely harmless?"
"Pretty slim. Saddam isn't noted for his interest in anything that doesn't have a military application. He tends to spend every penny he's got on building up his war machine."
"I know I've said this before," Sternhold began. "But I don't think Saddam would use WMDs if he had them. It'd be raising the stakes too high. He'd be running the risk of massive retaliation."
"We still can't take chances. If Saddam had any common sense he wouldn't have started the war with Iran or invaded Kuwait."
"I don't see why we should be bothering with Iraq. It would only give him and various other crazies their excuse for launching a holy war. We've no proof he was involved in September 11th. Even he knew the risks that'd be involved."
“He gloated over it.”
“He wouldn’t go any further than that. That's why he's been keeping Bin Laden at arm's length, supporting him from a distance."
"We’ve no evidence he’s supporting Bin Laden at all."
"Well," sighed Lerpiniere, "I suggest we all meet here again in a couple of weeks' time. Sooner, if anything more comes up. That OK with everyone?" The others nodded.
He stood up, prompting his colleagues to do the same. Before leaving the room he paused at the door for a moment, his lips pursed. Glancing back at him, Malikian saw his expression and guessed at his thoughts. “We should have gone right in and occupied Baghdad in '91," Lerpiniere was continually declaring. "Then we wouldn't have problems like this."
Malikian was inclined to agree with him. It would all have been over and done with, whatever problems might have been caused, and the Iraqi people would have benefited as much as anyone else. Despite the financial damage to Iraq the economic sanctions and periodic air strikes Saddam remained firmly in power in Baghdad, for all they knew plotting some new attack upon his neighbours, some new act of defiance against the international community. In the long run, the Iraqis were probably suffering unnecessarily.
And it mattered to him a great deal that they should not do so. Because in the last resort, he was a UN more than a CIA man.

Beavering over a pile of papers, Caroline heard someone knock on the door of the office. "Come in."
Mandy Dixon entered, her arms full with half-a-dozen thick lever arch files. Caroline smiled. "Aren't you taking on a bit too much there?"
Mandy gave her usual bland grin. "Just come to put these back."
"Thanks. Do you know where they go?"
"Um, no."
Caroline indicated the cabinet standing in the corner near the door. "Over there, on the PR shelf." The gaps in the row of files indicated where the returned ones should go.
"Er, do you think you could close the door?" Caroline asked a moment later. Voices and other sounds were drifting into the room, preventing her from concentrating.
"Sorry," said Mandy. Her tone was a little bolshy and Caroline glared at her back as she made to comply with the request.
Her head dipped back towards her work.
A few moments later she was disturbed from her labours by an almighty crash. Looking up in alarm, she saw that several of the files had fallen from the shelf and landed on the floor, bursting open and spilling their contents over a wide area.
"What are you doing?" she yelled, bounding from her chair in horror.
"Sorry," said Mandy.
It looked as if she had attempted to cram all the returned files into one of the gaps, instead of putting each back in its proper place. The result had been inevitable.
Caroline winced. "Be careful!" Oh for God's sake, she muttered beneath her breath.
"Sorry," said Mandy. It seemed to be the word she used more than any other. She squatted down and began sifting through the chaos of papers in an attempt to order them.
"It's all right, don't bother," Caroline said hurriedly. "I'll see to it." She went to retrieve the papers. "Thanks for bringing them back."
"OK," said Mandy, and exited the room.
"Er, Mandy..."
Just outside, Mandy turned. "Yeah?"
"The door," smiled Caroline, indicating same. Mandy shut it with a force that made Caroline jump and rattled some of the smaller objects on her desk. Whether it was out of thoughtlessness, or rudeness, was difficult to judge.
With a sigh, she got on with the irksome task of putting everything back in the right order within the right file.
After a similar episode a few days later, Caroline called on George Watson-Dove, head of Admin and Mandy's line manager, to ask if it could be arranged that she did not in future have any dealings with her.
"Which one do you mean?" he asked. There had been about half-a-dozen casuals taken on at the beginning of the year.
Caroline was disgusted to find that he hadn't even bothered to learn her name, although in truth she wasn't particularly surprised. "She's about five foot two with brown hair, quite attractive."
"Oh, that one. Yes, as a matter of fact I was on the point of going to see you. After all, you did say I should if anything like this came up." There was a hint of resentment in his voice, which Caroline decided to ignore.
She had been meaning to ask him about the general quality of Mandy's work. "What's she done?"
"Basically, she's hopeless," he said. "Fucking hopeless."
Not for the first time she winced inwardly at his tendency to uninhibitedly use bad language in everyday conversation. He might be ex-Army, but still…"Yes, I know," she sighed. "What’s the problem exactly? Could you be a bit more specific?"
"She hasn't an ounce of sense in her thick skull. You have to tell her at least three times how to do something before she gets it, and even then she pretty soon forgets. Yesterday she managed to wipe half the data from the computer; if there hadn't been a back-up copy it'd have been disastrous. I don't think we can trust her on the switchboard or Reception, given the mess she’s made of everything else. Half the time she doesn't hear what you say to her, I'm certain of it. And she's always filing things wrong. At this rate we're going to have to get rid of her."
"All right," Caroline nodded. "I'll have a word with her. Have you spoken to her yourself?"
"I thought that was your job," he added with an edge to his voice she didn't entirely care for.
George Watson-Dove had always objected to the principle of clearing any sackings of junior staff with the Head of Personnel. Before she came along he had been accustomed to doing much as he liked, and it was a cause of considerable resentment with him that things had not continued that way.
"Have you spoken to her?" Caroline repeated.
"You bet I have. Unfortunately it hasn't made a scrap of difference."
She wondered how tactful he’d been. "Well, maybe I'll have better luck. Send her my way, will you, if she's free?"
"I'll see if I can find her."
Caroline returned to her office. With a sigh she sat down and began psyching herself up for the coming interview. She'd had all the right training, of course, but none of it made this sort of thing any easier.
She was adding to her workload by insisting on person-ally admonishing wayward junior staff in this way. And she didn't need that. But neither did she feel she could let Mandy be sacked without some attempt first being made to redeem the situation, which meant dealing with it herself.
"Mandy," said Caroline, smiling in a friendly fashion as the girl appeared in the doorway. She pushed a chair forward. "Sit down." Mandy looked bemused more than anything else.
Caroline closed the door. "I really don't like to do this sort of thing, I can tell you," she said. Mandy seemed to stiffen slightly, but otherwise showed no reaction.
She entwined her fingers and rested her chin on them. "Mr Watson-Dove tells me he's a little concerned about the quality of your work just now."
Mandy looked blank.
She recited the catalogue of misdemeanours Watson-Dove had described. "Now, would you say all that is true?"
Still the girl said nothing. A few moments passed.
"Talk to me, Mandy."
"What do you want me to say?" answered Mandy sullenly, for the first time showing a flicker of animation.
"I don't want to hear what I want you to say. I want to know what you think."
She frowned. The blank look on Mandy’s face, in her eyes; there was something a little disturbing about it. As if, mentally speaking, she was on a different planet, a different reality, from everyone else. Not fully aware of her surroundings.
Leaving her chair, she perched herself on the front of the desk facing Mandy, arms folded. "You see, if someone is being accused of not pulling their weight, I want to hear their side of the story. That's how these things should be done. But how can I if you don't say anything? If you don't start being a bit more interactive I'm going to have to assume that what Mr Watson-Dove says is true.
"I have to confess," she added, "that what I've seen of you so far doesn't inspire confidence."
Bossy cow, Mandy was thinking.
Caroline sighed. "At this rate you're not going to keep your job, Mandy."
Again that noncommittal, uncomprehending look. It was beginning to irritate Caroline intensely. "Mandy, do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yeah," the girl replied in a low voice.
“Oh you do, good. Now why did you take this job on, Mandy?"
"Needed the money, didn' I?"
"We all do, Mandy. But I'd like to think it was more than that. I like to think that when people join the company, even if it's only as a casual, they'll stay on and become permanent. I like to think they'll still be with us in five or ten years' time, because they like working here. Unfortunately I don't see that happening in your case, not at present."
She straightened up. "I'll make a deal with you, Mandy. From now on, I want you to work hard and be polite to people and use your common sense a bit more. You'll find it pays off, believe me. There's more chance of staying in the job, which means you'll always be guaranteed the money you need to do everything you want in life. Meet us at least halfway, and we won't jump on you. We'll give you a chance. OK?"
Mandy seemed to think about this, and her manner changed. "Yeah, OK," she said pleasantly.
"I guess you've got the message. Just try and think a bit from now on, yes?"
"Yeah," Mandy smiled.
"And if you have any problems, come and see me or Mr Watson-Dove." Mandy nodded enthusiastically.
"All right," said Caroline brightly. "That's all. Thankyou, Mandy."
Mandy left the room, and this time she actually bothered to shut the door behind her.
Caroline hoped what she had said would do the trick. She wasn't inclined to be optimistic.
Afterwards however, to her pleasant surprise Mandy's work did seem to improve. She wasn't the brightest spark in the office, but she worked hard enough and made fewer mistakes. She also seemed generally more communicative.
It didn't last.
This time the problem was absenteeism. Mandy wouldn’t come in until lunchtime, or didn’t show at all, and on each occasion there seemed to be a perfectly good excuse for it.
Caroline called her into her office again. "You're slipping back into bad habits, aren't you Mandy?"
"What do you mean?" the girl asked, a picture of innocence. Again that blank bemused stare.
Caroline put an edge of steel into her voice. "Just remember what I said to you before." She vowed to herself that the next warning would be the final one. "I don't intend to go on repeating myself. We've tried to be reasonable with you and haven’t got anywhere. Quite frankly, it’s becoming a nuisance."
Mandy gazed vacantly back at her. "Sorry," she said.
*
Later that day, in the staff common room during afternoon tea break, Mandy was having an anxious confab with a friend on her mobile phone. She was meant to be staying with the friend that night, but for some reason which wasn't fully explained didn't want to take the bag she always carried with her, and which seemed to contain all her belongings, to the friend's house. The possibility of leaving it with her family was not mentioned.
Caroline, who was at the sink washing up some cups, overheard the conversation. "We could fix you up with a locker," she suggested. The staff lockers were relatively rarely used, because people generally preferred to keep their valuables with them while they worked. "It'll take a few days to get a key made." Not that Mandy would be here long enough to justify it, she thought, but she had to make the effort to be pleasant. "In the meantime you can put the bag in my office if you like."
Mandy hesitated for a moment, looking unhappy at the idea, and then smiled. "Thanks."
At five o'clock she dumped the bag in Caroline's office and left. Caroline stared at the door for some time after it had closed behind her, thinking. She had more or less made up her mind Mandy would have to go; there had been another "incident" that afternoon, when the girl had dumped some current paperwork in the wastepaper basket by mistake.
It was a shame, though.
There must be some reason for her unbelievably irresponsible behaviour. What on God's green earth made someone think they could carry on like that and get away with it? If she could find out what it was, maybe the problem would be solved.
She found herself thinking about the bag. Mandy's behaviour over the matter had been odd, to say the least.
It was after hours now, and her workload wasn't particularly heavy just then. She opened the plastic box that sat beside her computer and took out a floppy disc, inserting it into the slot in the CPU. For a while she played one of the computer games with which she often amused herself when at a loose end during lunch break. This one was a descendant of Space Invaders. She hadn't quite got it sussed yet; it always puzzled and frustrated her that whenever she got the cursor positioned over the target and pressed the key to zap it, the target simply moved on, the flashing effect which symbolised a hit occurring in empty space. Before long she gave up.
Eventually she came to a decision. She got up and moving slowly and almost reluctantly, crossed to where the holdall lay. A part of her was nagging insistently at the rest, telling her it wasn't any of her business and she shouldn't be going through someone's private property. But…
She squatted on her haunches beside the bag and unzipped it. Feeling most uncomfortable about the whole thing she riffled through the contents. A cheap paperback romance, some spare clothes, a toilet bag, the mobile phone.
And a little polythene bag sealed with cellotape and filled with a white powdery substance.

TWO
The very first thing next morning, Caroline asked Mandy to come and see her. This time the girl wasn't wearing her usual bored what-is-it-this-time expression; instead she looked genuinely nervous and frightened.
Caroline wasted no time. "I found something in that bag of yours last night." Mandy went as white as the cocaine. "I shouldn't have been looking but I had a theory and I wanted to test it.
"I'm not so naive that I didn't know what it was. What have you got to say for yourself?"
The thought suddenly occurred to her that someone might have been using Mandy as an unwitting courier for the drug. "Did you know it was there, Mandy?" she asked. "Did you?"
Mandy scowled as the penetrating gaze of Caroline's blue eyes swept over her.
"Well?"
"No," said Mandy.
"You're not telling me the truth, are you?" Caroline was a seasoned interviewer and so knew whether people were being honest or not.
"All right, so I'm lying. What you gonna do, tell the cops?"
"I should do, shouldn't I? You tell me, Mandy, what would you do in my position?"
"I'd sneak on you, I suppose. World's like that, innit?"
It occurred to Caroline that Mandy had a highly cynical view of life. "It's not sneaking. But I haven't said I'm going to do it, have I?" She noted the look of relief that crossed Mandy's face.
"I went to a lot of trouble last night getting rid of the stuff without anyone noticing. If someone had seen me I might have been in serious trouble. You should be grateful, you know.
"One thing I can't do is keep you on here, not after what I've found. I've an example to set to the firm and to society as a whole. I'm not having my staff involved in this kind of thing.
“I was on the point of sacking you as it was; well now this clinches it. What you do in your spare time is no concern of mine. But I can't have this revolting stuff in the office."
"You reckoned I was gonna sneak round to the bog and have a snort?" The girl sniffed derisively. "I wouldn't be that daft."
"I'm not saying you would. But how was I to know?"
With a sigh Caroline sat down. "I'm sorry, Mandy, but you're going to have to go and that's final - not that you'd care. I don't have to tell anyone why. If you just write me a letter saying you want to leave I'll stick it in your personnel file and let Mr Watson-Dove know."
"All false, innit?" Mandy sneered.
"Sometimes it's OK to tell...fibs, if it's for a good reason. As long as you go now, no harm will be done as far as the firm's concerned." At least, she hoped that was the case. "Would you rather everyone knew you were thrown out because you'd been sniffing coke? I'm trying to save you a lot of trouble."
What do you want, a fucking medal? Mandy thought.
Caroline found a spare sheet of foolscap and pushed it across the desktop. "Just put your name and the date on it, and that'll be that. It'll be effective from tomorrow morning, by which I mean you can just not come in then. As for the reason, anything will do. People won't make a fuss about it if I don't. As a Casual you're vulnerable, Mandy, did you know that?"
"World's shit," observed Mandy.
"There's no point in making it worse by taking drugs. Now then, Mandy, the question is this." She threw herself back in the chair. "Do I tell the police or not? I don't know whether it'd be a crime if I didn't, but it would certainly look bad. However, I don't think I want to do it somehow.
"Of course, you could threaten to say that I knew what you were doing and kept it a secret."
"Wouldn't do that," said Mandy with genuine feeling. Was she merely reacting to what she considered to be an insult, or did she have some standards after all?
"OK, so you wouldn't. I didn't mean to be nasty. Now look; what I'm going to say to you is this. I'm prepared to keep quiet about the matter...provided you let me help you."
Mandy's face assumed a long-suffering expression. "What do you mean?"
"If I can find the address of a drug rehabilitation centre, I want you to get in touch with them and explain your problem. We can keep everything quite confidential."
"Been to one of those places," Mandy muttered. "Didn't do no good."
"Why didn't it?"
"There ain't nothing wrong with it," said Mandy spiritedly, ignoring Caroline's question.
“What, taking drugs? How long have you been doing it for?"
"Oh, a few years."
"Does it ever make you feel funny? Ill?"
"Oh yeah, once in a while. Worth it, though. Makes you feel fantastic sometimes. Really great."
"At the moment it may seem like that. But sooner or later it'll start to mess you up. You'll spoil your looks, and that would be a pity."
"And not just your looks," she added darkly. "You'll be in prison when you're not in hospital. You'll be permanently unemployable. And one day you might just collapse and die."
"That's the way it goes," Mandy opined.
"I want you to go back to the rehabilitation centre and have another try. Really give it a go this time. Let me have your number and address, so I can get in touch with you at some point."
Mandy scribbled indifferently on the scrap of paper Caroline had given her to write her resignation letter on.
"So do you promise to do that?" The girl nodded curtly.
“You find this a little tiresome, don't you Mandy?"
Mandy said nothing.
"Just remember what I'll do if I find you haven't kept your side of the bargain. By not telling someone now I'm putting myself in a very risky situation, so you ought to be grateful really."
"It's your choice," Mandy shrugged.
Caroline ignored this. "I'm not doing it just for your sake. If you stop taking the stuff it's one less customer for the pushers, for all those nasty people who are trying to make money out of human misery. And if you can cure yourself of your addiction others may decide to follow your example."
Proper little social worker, ain't you, Mandy was thinking. She'd had enough of social workers. Caroline would have replied that she was supposed to be a business executive.
"I think that's all I want to say," Caroline finished. "I'll make sure you'll get paid for the work you did while you were here."
Mandy stood up, clearly intending to leave. "Just a minute, what about that note you were going to write for me?"
Mandy suddenly remembered. She held her hand out for another piece of foolscap. "Have you been in trouble with the police before, Mandy?" asked Caroline as she wrote out the letter.
"Oh yeah, loads of times," said Mandy dismissively.
"You should have told us. It's not right to deceive people, you know."
Again Mandy shrugged.
"Well, goodbye, Mandy," Caroline said.
"Bye," said Mandy indifferently, and went out. She didn't bother with the door.
*
It was lunchtime, and Caroline had decided to pay a brief visit to her parents. She and her mother, Margaret, were discussing her experiences with Mandy over tea.
"I suppose it isn't really any of my business," Caroline sighed.
"But I was her employer, and so I guess I felt responsible for her."
It was hard to say how much of Mandy's mind-boggling stupidity was natural and how much due to the drugs. Caroline had sometimes had the impression she was a good deal brighter than she seemed.
"I really don't see why you should bother about it so much, dear," said her mother. "If she's silly enough to get involved in these things she's going to have to face the consequences."
"I just feel I have to do it," Caroline said, privately wondering whether Margaret's attitude might not actually be the right one. Perhaps she felt she was now too deeply involved in the matter, and had to see it through to its conclusion. Besides, Mandy wouldn’t have got a lot of sympathy out of George Watson-Dove.
Heavy footsteps announced the arrival of her father. He came in
from the garden wearing shorts and a tennis pullover, racket still clutched in one hand. "Hello lass!" he beamed, marching up to Caroline and enfolding her in an affectionate bear-hug. "How's tricks?"
"Fine thanks, Dad," she grinned, pecking him on the cheek.
"Who's that you were talking about just now, if I may be a little nosy? It sounded very interesting."
Caroline related the saga of Mandy. He frowned. "If I was you I'd go straight to the cops and tell them everything."
"I can't, not now I've promised her I wouldn't."
"Bit daft of you to have done that," he muttered.
"Oh don't talk to her like that," Margaret chided. "I'm sure she knew what she was doing."
"So do you think you've achieved anything, then?" Edward Kent asked. Caroline had to concede she wasn't optimistic.
"There you are, you see. You're putting yourself in a lot of bother for nothing."
"Would you like to think you had a daughter who didn't care about people?" she challenged.
Like a typical man, Edward changed the subject. "You off on any of your assignments in the near future?"
"I'm going to Saudi Arabia next month, just for a couple of weeks. There's nothing wrong there, they just want me to look at the accounts and chat to a few of the staff to see everything's OK; it's a routine thing. The person who usually does it is ill at the moment."
"And you're not worried about flying?"
"I can't be. If nobody flew business would just grind to a halt, wouldn't it? And that's just what Mr bin Laden and his friends want." It was a trite observation but perfectly correct.
"I know that," said Edward. It was odd, he thought, that he should be forgetting such considerations, being a businessman himself. "Everyone does. I guess I just care about you, that's all."
"You're welcome, Dad."
Caroline was silent for a while, gazing at the photograph of her brother on the sideboard. Margaret misinterpreted her expression and smiled at her sympathetically.
"Well, I'm off to get changed," announced Edward. "See you in a tick." He stomped out of the room.
Coming out of her reverie, Caroline remembered what she had been meaning to ask her mother. "How are you now, Mum? Seriously."
"I'm as well as can be expected, thankyou dear. Honestly, I really do think you worry about me too much. Like the way you worry about that girl."
"And are you and Dad getting on?"
Margaret laughed. "Of course we are, dear. Thanks to you." She became serious, looking her daughter straight in the face. "To be honest, things like this drugs business aren't likely to do my palpitations any good. I know I keep saying it but I really wish you hadn't got involved."
Caroline shrugged. "It's too late now."
She knew she had been on safe ground confiding in her parents about Mandy. She confided in her mother, at least, where most matters were concerned.
Most matters. There were things that Caroline did, in addition to her work for the company, that she had never mentioned to them. Not activities about which there was anything illegal; but it had always been impressed upon her that it would be better if no-one, not even her immediate family, got to know about them.

"Saddam's what??!!!!!"
"It's true," said Loomis. "See for yourself." He ushered Malikian into his office, gesturing to him to sit, and switched on the TV. The tape was already in the VCR.
The slightly blurred picture showed Saddam Hussein, immaculate in his best Pierre Cardin suit and tie, seated at his desk in his study at one of his various Presidential Palaces with a microphone in front of him. "We in Iraq have decided to show that we are as dedicated to the cause of peace as any other people,” the dubbed voice-over began. “In the interests of easing international tension and making the world a safer place to live in, we are giving up our entire stock of chemical and biological weapons along with all our nuclear material. They will be made available for international inspection as of now. We expect that in return Iraq will be swiftly readmitted to the community of nations and that all economic and political sanctions against us will cease. I await the response of Mr Bush and his allies." The fact that the weapons existed at all, something Saddam was obviously admitting to by saying he was going to give them up, when they should not would be overlooked in the widespread euphoria at this unexpected and welcome move. As he had no doubt calculated.
Loomis reached for the remote control. "That's the essence of it," he said, switching the video off. He glanced at Malikian. "What do you think?"
"The tone of your voice," Malikian said, "suggests to me that you are a little sceptical yourself."
Loomis chuckled, then became serious. "Whenever someone like Saddam makes an announcement like that, it scares me more than anything else. It's got to be a ploy, going by past experience."
"All the same it's a pretty big sacrifice, if he really is going to do it."
"What makes you think he is?"
"I think," said Malikian slowly, "that he is going to give up some of his weapons but not all. In fact he'll probably only show us a fraction of what he's got. The rest will stay hidden away somewhere until he decides the time is right to use it. It's a blind, that's what it is. A trick to make us think he's no longer a threat to us."
"I'm inclined to agree with you. But we have to respond to this, Theo. We've got to meet him at least half-way or else it's us who're gonna be made to look the warmongers."
"It'll have to be put to the meeting. But I'd say we should take up his offer to inspect the weapons while carrying on with the satellite and aerial surveillance. We have to keep a close eye on everything he's doing and if there's anything that looks suspicious, chase it up."
Loomis nodded. It was the right strategy and he had little doubt the meeting would go for it.
"It could be the real business is going on at that complex, and it's not an agricultural research centre like the Iraqis say it is. That's what Saddam's trying to divert attention from."
"It's a possibility. They'll cut up rough, of course, if we start making allegations about that place."
"If he's really serious about going for peace, he shouldn't have any reason to object," Malikian said tersely. "Now let's go to that meeting."
The meeting, as Malikian had forecast, endorsed the policy of inspecting Saddam's WMD stockpiles while continuing to watch carefully for any sign he was up to something. Any action with regard to the complex at Quarat would have to wait until more was known about it.
As Malikian drove home to his family that evening, unease continued to gnaw at his mind. Whatever it all meant, he was sure in his heart it would lead to yet another bloody conflict. Of the sort the world had seen far too much of in recent decades.
He had known from an early age what Man's twisted and violent nature could lead to. His grandmother had never been able to talk to him about the massacres of Armenians by the Turks in 1915 without weeping. When he was a child her tears and the way she went so pale and quiet, for a minute or two not seeming to hear what was said to her, made him feel embarrassed and uneasy. He later realised she was editing her account of the horrific scenes she had witnessed so as not to give him nightmares. It had been those outrages which led to Malikian's family emigrating to America, seeking refuge in a country they had been told was a land of liberty and opportunity, where they could be safe from persecution for evermore.
Nowadays it wasn't Armenians, by and large, who suffered but there were plenty of others who did. Why did the people of Iraq have to be in the firing line all the time? They'd been hurt so much by sanctions and the effects of Allied bombing. His mind was filled with the images of a US air raid on Baghdad a few years ago. Children with arms and legs blown off, screaming in pain. Mothers weeping over their dead bodies, inconsolable with grief. Homes and livelihoods destroyed. And always the terrible fear that it was going to happen again.
It angered him that some parts of the world had to endure these things while others didn't. The Middle East and the Third World had put up with so much for the sake of the West, when if you looked at it we had it easy. We didn't get massacred, or starve, in large numbers and our military strength protected us from oppression by other powers.
But Malikian's reason, his better nature, told him that Western lives mattered too. They were not destroyed on such a huge scale as others', but there was always the danger that they might be. Within reason it was better to be poor, or even seriously injured, than dead. To be a Westerner, a member of a society more prosperous and secure than any other in the world, was little consolation if you or your loved ones got killed in some terrorist atrocity.
His eyes strayed eastward, across the river, to where the World Trade Centre had stood until a few months before.
The Twin Towers. They had been such a familiar landmark that he always expected to see them, and when he didn't there was that plunging, sickening awareness of loss, of all that had been destroyed - perhaps forever - on that terrible day of which it was almost too painful to think.
He reminded himself that America was the country his family had devoted their lives to. By and large it had fulfilled their expectations of it. But Malikian's other loyalty, to the United Nations, was just as strong, for the very same reasons that his grandparents had become Americans. Especially when his own country, that he loved so much, had done some terrible things of late, for reasons he understood but which didn't make him feel any better.
That he often doubted, with the world slipping inexorably into violence and war, whether there was now any point in the UN made little difference to his inner turmoil. He had devoted his whole life to world peace and to abandon that cause now would render all that had happened before ultimately purposeless.
He decided he had no choice but to go on making the effort. At least then he'd keep his self-respect, his moral dignity. That consolation was to him a tiny, wavering candle in a vast ocean of darkness.

As Caroline left IPL that night, crossing the forecourt of the premises to her car, she heard voices raised in agitation. They were coming from just around the corner of the main building, and one of them, a woman's, sounded familiar. She caught an obscenity and wondered if she shouldn't challenge them.
She moved a little closer, cocking her head to listen to what was being said. The female voice was definitely Mandy's.
"I didn't take it, I swear. The boss woman found out and got rid of it."
"Is she going to mouth off to the cops?"
"She promised me she wouldn't."
"And how do you know you can trust her?" The speaker gave a harsh, bitter sigh. "What about the money you earned last night?"
"I didn't earn any money last night - "
"What? How come?"
"I had to go. The Old Bill came along. Reckon they must have been doing one of their swoops."
"So why didn't you come back after they'd gone?"
"They were there for ages."
"You're lying. You spent all the cash on the snow, didn't you? The cut we give you isn't enough for you, is it?"
This was getting more and more intriguing by the minute. Realising the click of her heels would give her away, Caroline slipped off her shoes and crept forward in her stockings. From a window of the main building a fellow executive observed her with no particular surprise. He shrugged and turned away. It was the general opinion throughout the rank and file of IPL that Caroline was mad.
She peered round the corner. It was Mandy, all right, arguing with a young man in leather jacket and chords. He kept thrusting his face into hers and gesticulating furiously.
"I'll do it on me own," Mandy was saying.
"No you won't," snarled the youth. "I'm telling you, you won't last long. I'll see to that."
"You touch me and I'll go straight to the cops."
"Oh yeah? Don't make me laugh. You'd have to tell them all about what you've been up to, wouldn't you?" The voice lowered to a menacing whisper. "If you do, you're gonna wish you'd never been born."
It sounded as if things were going to get nasty. Caroline tensed herself to intervene. Feeling rather silly standing there in her stockings, she put her shoes back on.
The youth's face twisted with hatred. "You stupid little slag, you've fucking well messed it up. I'm warning you - I'm warning you - if that bird goes to the police and lands us all in the shit, I'm gonna fucking do you in, you fucking - "
This was the last straw. Abandoning all attempt at concealment, Caroline strode out into the open. "Excuse me, do you mind? This is company property. Would you please conduct your arguments somewhere else, especially if you're going to use language like that."
The man swung round and stared at her in a kind of astonishment. Then he made a rude gesture and stalked off, disappearing through the gates.
"Mandy, who was that?" Caroline demanded.
Mandy hurried away without a word.
Caroline went back into the building and up the stairs to her office. Mandy's address would be in the personnel files. She found it and scribbled it down.
Later that evening at about seven o'clock, she parked her car almost directly opposite Mandy's house on the other side of the road to it. It was one of a number of run-down 1930s semi-detacheds.
She took out some papers and started to read them, occasionally glancing at her watch or at the house, and all the time listening carefully.
She heard a car coming along the little street towards her. It pulled up to the kerb and stopped. Caroline glanced out of the window and saw a young woman get out of it. She was wearing cutaway jeans with frayed edges, sandals and a T-shirt. Well, it was a fairly warm evening.
The girl rang the bell and a few moments later Mandy opened the door. Caroline noted that she was similarly dressed to her friend. After brief mutual greetings, they got into the car and drove off down the street towards the main road. Caroline started her own vehicle and set off after them.
She managed to stay close behind the car as it headed east through the West London suburbs. As she realised where they were going her suspicions were more or less confirmed.
They turned off the main road down a long, slightly curving thoroughfare called Coronation Road. It was flanked by identical rows of Victorian terraced houses, grim and dingy-looking. It was now almost dark, and the old-fashioned swan's neck street lamps were casting their pale yellow glow onto the pavement.
The other car drew in to the kerb and Caroline saw Mandy and her friend get out. "See you later then," she heard Mandy say.
"Yeah, see you," replied the other girl. They went off in opposite directions.
There were no other vehicles in sight. Caroline cut her speed, wondering as she drove slowly along whether a woman would be thought likely to be a kerb crawler. She stopped, turned round and headed off in the direction she had seen Mandy go, ignoring her friend who had registered the car's presence and turned towards it with an inviting smile.
Looking out the window, she saw Mandy position herself under a streetlamp and lean against it with her arms folded, one leg slightly in front of the other and bent at the knee.
Caroline had seen enough. She put her foot down on the accelerator and sped off, leaving Mandy staring after her in puzzlement.

THREE
AT RUBY G's
The following day after work she went to the local library and looked up the addresses of various women's refuges plus the local branch of the YWCA. As soon as she got home she rang Mandy's number. A woman's voice answered her; “Yeah?" it challenged.
"Hello, is Mandy there please?" asked Caroline pleasantly.
"She don't live here no more," the woman replied in a whiny Hounslow accent.
"Oh," said Caroline, wondering what had happened. "Um - where can I find her, do you know?"
"Haven't a clue."
Moment's silence.
"Ah," said Caroline politely. "Are you sure?"
Another silence followed, as if it was a bit of an effort for the woman to answer and she had to stop to summon up the energy. "Well...maybe at this place she hangs out sometimes. Nightclub. It's called the Ruby G's or something." The voice hardened, becoming interrogative and hostile. "Who is this?"
"If you see her, just say Caroline called. Er, where exactly is this nightclub?"
"Down Wickham way somewhere, I think. What - "
"Thankyou very much indeed, you've been most helpful. 'Bye."
Caroline consulted the Yellow Pages and found the address of the nightclub. She located it on an atlas of the area and encircled it in biro. After feeding herself and the cat she left the house and drove to Wickham.
The building had once been a cinema, by the look of it. Above the door, running most of the length of the frontage, was a glitzy neon sign bearing the name of the establishment accompanied by a female cartoon character in a seductive pose. Caroline wrinkled her nose. Three burly bouncers in suits and ties stood just inside the entrance. There was no hostility, no attempt to challenge her; their twinkling eyes and broad grins told her she would have no problem being accepted here. Men were so predictable.
She paid the entrance fee and went in, passing through an internal door into the bar. It and the dance floor, a raised platform big enough to accommodate nearly a hundred people, were packed, and the babble of voices along with the music blaring from the speakers was almost deafening. She wondered how anyone could make themselves heard above all that racket. Smoke was coming from somewhere, filling the air a few feet above the heads of the clubbers, and strobe lights flashed on and off. The dance floor was packed with gyrating bodies and you could smell the sweat that glistened on bare shoulders and midriffs. Giant size posters of film stars past and present adorned the walls.
She moved among the tables in the bar looking for some sign of Mandy. There wasn't any.
A man stepped in front of her. "Looking for someone, darling?"
"Yes, but it's not you. Sorry." She stepped neatly round him.
She heard him mutter something to the effect that she must be a lesbian.
"'Ello, darlin,' fancy giving me a gobble?" shouted another clubber drunkenly, to be reprimanded by a friend. She moved on, her expression deadpan.
The things I'm doing for you, Mandy, she thought. You'd better make it worthwhile.
She craned her neck in a bid to spot Mandy among the dancers. It was a difficult task among the mass of bodies, each in constant rapid motion. After a few minutes she gave up.
She ordered a drink, then found a seat near the perimeter of the bar area, where she could continue to keep an eye on the dancers. She tried to gauge the feel of the place. Socially it was a mixture, London and Home Counties accents blending together in the babble of conversation around her. Sure, it was a little vulgar, a little garish, but it wasn't much worse than some other places she'd been in. The atmosphere on the whole was not unfriendly.
She sipped at her Malibu and waited for Mandy to turn up. Ten o'clock passed, and still there was no sign of the girl. No prizes for guessing how she must be occupied.
Caroline sighed. There wasn't much to do except drink while she waited for Mandy to make an appearance, and she was afraid of having too much of the wrong thing and ending up unable to drive home. She'd give it another ten minutes.
The music suddenly stopped, and a young man in a black suit and bow tie mounted the steps to the dance floor, took a microphone from its stand and addressed the gathering. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention pleeeese!
"Hope you've enjoyed yourselves so far tonight. And now the moment you've all been waiting for - our regular karaoke competition. As usual we're offering a prize for the best singer and dancer, so if you feel like trying your luck just step this way! Do we have any volunteers?"
A murmur ran through the clientele. Everyone immediately decided they would not under any circumstances commit themselves, then attempted vigorously to persuade their companions to have a go. One or two started to get up from their seats, then sat back as their courage failed them.
"Come on, don't be shy," urged the compere.
Caroline considered the invitation thoughtfully. Well, if Mandy wasn't going to show she might as well enjoy herself...otherwise it would all have been a bit of a waste of time.
She glanced around. At the moment no-one else seemed willing to take the plunge.
You only live once, she thought. On an impulse she stood up and walked towards the dais. As soon as they saw her there was a predictable chorus of wolf whistles, cat-calls and ribald comments. She just smiled and walked on to join the compere, running the gauntlet.
"Well, hello there," he said, making a not entirely successful effort to disguise his interest. "And what's your name, then?"
"Caroline," said Caroline.
"So you fancy your chances then, Caroline?"
"I can never resist a challenge," she said proudly.
She chose a song, positioned herself at the microphone, and took a deep breath.
It had always been said of Caroline by those who knew her that she had a good singing voice. When the song was about something sad or thoughtful it was a soulful, haunting sound; if something exuberant it changed totally, becoming imbued with energy and zest for life. It wasn't quite up to the standard of professional performers, but it came pretty close.
Apart from the occasional slip, each word was precisely enunciated. And she sung with feeling and passion, because she could imagine how the people in the song would feel in their situation, using her ability as an actress to conceive of and express different moods. Everyone looked at the girl with the long blonde hair, wondering who she was, as she danced to the rousier numbers, her eyes sparkling with pleasure and her golden locks tossing about her shoulders. She moved with perfect fluidity from one style to another, every movement reflecting total self-confidence along with perfect co-ordination. A man seated at the front row of tables gazed up at her in astonishment, totally captivated. "Jesus Christ," he breathed.
She went through a variety of songs before finishing, appropriately, with something by Blondie. She stepped down from the dais to a chorus of cheers and whistles, grinning broadly. "Encore," someone shouted.
The noise subsided and the announcer spoke again. "Bloody good," he said with genuine admiration. "Bloody good! Stay with us, Caroline, I reckon you might just stand a chance of winning something."
She went and sat down, and was immediately surrounded by a host of admirers keen to offer congratulations.
After a while they drifted away. The karaoke competition continued, and the clientele's attention was taken up by the performers as they attempted with varying degrees of success to equal Caroline's performance. She sat and laughed at them.
A man who had been hovering near her table for some time, and who now saw his chance, came to sit opposite her. He was a smartly-dressed thirtysomething with yellow hair and vaguely handsome features.
"Excuse me," he said, "is it all right if we have a word?"
"I don't see why not," said Caroline.
"I saw you perform back there. You were very good."
"Thankyou."
"I've a proposition to make to you."
"Oh yes?"
"Have you ever thought of taking it up professionally? I work for an agency which is on the lookout for people like you. We hire people for cabaret acts, dance troupes, not just in England but all over the world. I think you're what we need. The pay's good and we're a friendly crowd; what do you say?"
For a moment she was rather taken aback. But she knew there was only one response she could give, in the end.
"I'm very sorry," she said. "I don't like to disappoint you. But I already have a very good job with good pay and I don't want to leave it. As a matter of fact I did consider doing something like this once, but I decided it wasn't for me."
He refused to be discouraged. "You'll have a great time. You'll get to see lots of interesting places; and you never know, it could be a stepping stone to something bigger. You could be famous."
"No," she said firmly, smiling to show that she nonetheless appreciated his offer. "It's very nice of you. But it's not really how I see my future."
"You're missing out on a good thing," he told her.
"I'm afraid my mind's made up."
The man was obviously disappointed, but it showed only for a brief moment, then he was the smooth professional again. "Do you mind if I give you our card?" he said, reaching into his pocket. "Just in case you change you mind."
Caroline felt it would be polite to accept; and she was, to tell the truth, rather flattered by the offer. "All right, if you want to."
"Well thanks for your time, anyway. Take care. Hope to hear from you." With a friendly smile he moved away to disappear into the crowd.
Caroline studied the square of card he had handed her. "Starlite Entertainments." There was a London telephone number beneath the name.
"Ladies and gentlemen, can we have some quiet please," she heard the compere shout. "It's time to announce the winner of the karaoke competition." He held a brief conversation with a group of people who were evidently acting as judges, then turned back to face his audience.
"And the winner is - Caroline!" There was another thunderous burst of cheering.
She left with a bottle of wine and a £50 luncheon voucher, feeling thoroughly pleased with herself.

Olof Soderstrom was gazing out through the kitchen window at the pine forest which began just beyond the garden of his house, and meditating upon his domestic affairs.
Things weren't too bad, on the whole. The divorce had been fairly amicable, and he got to see the kid about half the time. The one thing which still rankled with him was that in the end Karin had put her career before her family; at least, that was how he saw it. It was the one area where he felt he could justly say the blame was entirely hers.
He heard a child's footsteps on the stairs, and looked round. "Had enough of your computer game?" he smiled.
"Yes," said Bjorn, his seven-year-old son. The kid was sensible; he didn't spend his time enslaved to the machine like so many other boys his age. Olof had impressed on him that he shouldn't, knowing what the harmful consequences would be. Karin couldn't say he didn't look after the child.
"Are you going to play in the garden now?" he asked.
"Yes."
"That's good. The more fresh air you can get the better. So off you go."
Bjorn paused on his way to the door and turned to look at Olof, an earnest expression on his little face. "Pappa?"
"Yes, Bjorn?"
"Why did mamma go away?" He still didn't quite understand it, even though several of his friends at school said it had happened to them.
Olof smiled, putting an arm around Bjorn's shoulders and drawing the boy to him. "It's something you'll only be able to understand when you're older. She has things to do that she can't when she's with us. Now don't worry about it. You miss mamma, yeah?"
"Yes," said Bjorn sadly, looking down at the floor.
Olof ruffled the boy's blond hair affectionately. "Well, cheer up. You're going to be seeing her tomorrow, aren't you? And then you'll be staying with her for a week. And you never know, one day she may be able to come back. Like I said, you'll understand it when you're older."
"All right," said Bjorn doubtfully. With a smile Olof released him and went to let him out, opening the door that led onto the patio.
He'll get over it, Olof thought. He's tough. It's probably screwed us up more than it has him.
And even we are coping, after a fashion. The saddening increase in relationship breakdowns overshadowed the fact that many couples, if they did split up, remained on good terms afterwards, and some even reunited after a while. In his and Karin's case, though, there was little chance of reconciliation. She was so devoted to her career that it was unlikely to come until she retired, and anything could happen in the meantime.
Gazing through the window at Bjorn scampering about the garden, he decided he fancied a bit of fresh air himself. He found a book, fetched a folding chair from the shed, went outside and sat down on the patio to read.
After a while Bjorn got bored with kicking a ball about and went back inside; feeling, Olof guessed, that he had earned an hour or so on the computer.
Olof continued to sit on the patio absorbed in his book. The fresh air, sound of birdsong and scent of pinewood made him feel happy and relaxed, banishing his regrets and anxieties.
The door from the kitchen had been left slightly ajar. He heard the hinges creak and looked up enquiringly. "Yes, Bjorn?"
He stood up sharply, the book slipping from his fingers. "Who are you?"

Caroline danced rather than walked into Personnel the next morning. "When the Samba rhythm takes me high... "
Sheila, her secretary, gave her a quizzical look. Caroline told her what had happened the previous night, including the offer of a lucrative career in the entertainment industry. "I didn't think it was for me, on the whole." Nevertheless she was, to be honest, flattered and chuffed by the offer, and it did bring wistful thoughts of what she might have been if she'd gone down that particular avenue. On a whim she decided to look up Starlite Entertainments in the telephone directory.
They weren't listed, so at lunchtime she tried a handbook in the local library. They weren't listed there either. Caroline frowned, and a disquieting thought or two entered her head. The man had, she supposed, been a little pushy in insisting on giving her his card, and at the same time suggesting she might change her mind when she had already indicated that was unlikely.
She flicked through the book and found the details of the national organisation responsible for entertainment companies. She rang them directly on returning to the office. "Can you tell me if you have an agency called Starlite Entertainments registered with you?"
"One minute, I'll just check for you." The woman consulted a computer and after a moment got back to her.
"No. There doesn't appear to be a company with that name on our files. Have you been approached by them?"
Caroline described her conversation with Starlite's rep at Ruby G's a couple of nights before. "Looks as if they're out to rook people." She felt a surge of indignation. OK, thanks. I doubt I'll be having much to do with that bunch." She put down the phone.
A certain smile spread slowly across her face. She rang the number on Starlite's card. It was the man who'd given it to her at the club who answered. "I've been thinking about your offer and I've decided to change my mind," she told him. "Can we meet?"
"How about back at the club, eight-thirty tonight?"
"That's fine. See you there."
And so that evening she turned up at the Ruby G's, bought a drink and wandered around the bar. A few people who recognised her from the night before waved.
She caught sight of the man from Starlite, and their eyes met. His head jerked upward in acknowledgement and she went and sat down beside him.
"Hi, how are you?" he enquired pleasantly.
"Fine, thanks."
"So you're going to join us - that's great. I think you've made the right decision. I mean, you don't want to spend your life sitting behind a bloody desk do you?"
"No. So when do I start?"
"You'll have to do a couple of tests first; I'm sure you'll do OK, after what I saw on Tuesday. Then you'll have to register with us - means filling out one or two forms, that's all. The manager will want to have a chat with you, explain what your obligations are. And then we - "
"Oh, I don't think there'll be any need for all that," Caroline said, the tone of her voice suddenly changing. He stiffened, staring at her in a disconcerted fashion.
She raised her voice, causing a number of people sitting near them to look round, startled. Good, she'd got their attention.
"You may be interested to know that I checked on your agency. According to Equity and all the other professional organisations, you don't exist. Pretty weird, huh?"
She continued in the same loud voice, putting as much anger into it as she could muster.
Dozens of heads were turned in their direction, as the clubbers listened to the conversation with growing interest.
"I don't know quite what's going on here, but it's obviously some kind of rip-off."
The man's eyes narrowed and he sat up straight. "I...I don't know what you're talking about," he gasped.
He seemed to collect himself, and gave a little laugh. "Well, not everyone's listed," he said in a calmer voice. "Why should we be? I mean, we're a good outfit whether we're in the book or not."
"How do I know that unless I can check? All the respectable ones register. In my experience, firms who won't join professional organisations don't do so because they know people won't approve of the way they do their business."
Caroline looked round at the people clustered about them. "You don't want anything to do with this rat. He's obviously a crook and a con-man and God knows what else." She addressed the bouncer who had come up to see what the commotion was, and who was now joined by a smartly-dressed, formidable-looking woman in her forties who she guessed was the manageress. "If I were you I'd make sure he doesn't show his face in here again."
Again the man stared at her, still seeming more astonished than anything else. Then his expression changed.
"Fuck you, darling," he snarled. "Fuck you, OK?" Savagely he stuck two fingers up at her, sprang from his chair and stormed off towards the exits, obviously keen to be out of the building as quickly as possible.
The manageress turned to Caroline. "What was all that about?"
Caroline explained. The woman looked taken aback for a second or two, then uncertain. Finally she grinned admiringly. "Well, you certainly sorted him out."
"Sorting things out is my business," Caroline announced proudly.
The manageress and bouncer moved away and she sipped at her lemonade for a bit, feeling pleased with herself. Then her face lit up as she caught sight of a familiar figure. Mandy had apparently just come in and was looking for a place to sit. Caroline called out to her, beckoning her over. Mandy saw her and her lips twitched briefly.
"Mandy, hi!” said Caroline as the girl joined her. “I've been looking all over the place for you. Your Mum said you'd moved on."
"Yeah, I'm staying with friends now."
"You remember those addresses I said I'd get for you? Well, here they are." She had taken them along with her on the offchance that Mandy might be at the club.
She extracted the flimsy from her handbag and offered it to Mandy. "Thanks," said the girl, taking it.
"The ones I've ticked also do training schemes to help people get back into work, or improve their basic skills so they can apply for a wider range of jobs." From what she gathered those things weren't much cop, but some people did benefit from them, and she had to make the effort for Mandy’s sake. Besides, you wouldn't know for sure until you'd seen for yourself.
"Oh, right." Mandy didn't seem particularly interested, but then that was what Caroline had expected.
"How are you right now?"
"Oh, OK."
Caroline lowered her voice so that no-one was likely to hear them. "Well you might not be one day, if you carry on the way you are."
"You said that before," Mandy sniffed.
"I'm not talking about the drugs. You're a prostitute, aren't you?"
Mandy seemed about to deny it for a moment, then gave in. "How did you know?"
"From the one or two snippets I caught of your conversation with that character in the car park. Who was he, by the way?"
"My boyfriend."
"He threatened you once or twice."
"He's all right really."
"Come on, Mandy, no-one who treats you like that can be "all right." Anyway he's not your boyfriend, he's your drug dealer. As well as your pimp."
"Yes, what I heard made me just a little bit suspicious," she went on. "So I followed you home that night."
Something appeared to click in Mandy's brain. "I thought it was you in that car."
"Do you realise it's a high-risk occupation?"
"Pays me rent," was all Mandy could say. "It's all right for you. You got a cushy job, ain't you?"
"Not everyone who's poor turns to prostitution."
"I enjoy it."
"I doubt that."
"I do," said Mandy.
"There are serial killers who go after prostitutes. They pretend to be clients and as soon as you're in a vulnerable position they slash your throat or beat your head in."
"If it happens it happens."
"And it's the same if a condom splits on you, I suppose. Just one of those things."
"It probably won't."
"You can't be certain." She leaned back, regarding Mandy sadly. "You don't seem to have much regard for your own life, do you? 'm not sure I shouldn't tell the rehabilitation people about your night-time activities. I think you should. Still; maybe if they can sort out all your other problems, you won't want to do it.
"Have you ever spoken to your family about things? Your parents..."
Mandy's lip curled in contempt. "They don't fuckin' care."
"Were you abused as a child, Mandy? Neglected?" As soon as Caroline asked the question she knew she shouldn’t have done. Much as she wanted to help it wasn’t her business to pry into such matters. But it was too late now and she might as well see what result it produced.
There was a suggestion of anger. "None of your business." But Caroline knew from the look on the girl's face that her supposition was correct.
"Well," she sighed. "I just hope you'll take my advice, that's all. Look after yourself.” She rose, giving Mandy an encouraging pat on the shoulder, and left.
Mandy’s eyes followed Caroline vaguely until she had disappeared through the exit. Then she burst into a fit of giggling, head bent forward and body shaking with mirth.
An hour later, she left the club and went to a car parked directly opposite the entrance. The man sitting at the wheel saw her, smiled, and leaned over to open the passenger door.
He was in his thirties, smartly dressed, with yellow hair and vaguely handsome features.

FOUR
QADISIYYAT SADDAM
Dr Karin Soderstrom picked up the photograph on the mantelpiece and smiled at it for a few moments. She looked round the pine-furnished living room of her house, soon to ring with a child's laughter. Not long now until Bjorn would be with her; for another week, anyway.
The boy had been a late arrival, and the only one there was likely to be. If he ever asked about it, she would tell him that she had delayed having him because before then he would have been an interference with her happiness, preventing her living the way she wanted; also that she had delayed not just for her own sake, but because her resentment would have prevented her giving him the love and care and affection she knew he deserved, and that would have been bad. And she would be telling him the plain truth.
She had been worried there would be complications with the birth, that he might have Downs' Syndrome or something like that. But to her delight he had grown into a happy, healthy, normal little boy. The principal, though only, regret was that his life had been blighted by the divorce.
Was it my fault, she once again found herself wondering. Did I put my career before my family, perhaps without realising it? At the very least it was a contributory factor. Olof’s adultery had not by itself been enough to tip her over the edge.
She knew there was little chance of the break being mended. She was too deeply immersed in her current project, a project which might take many more years to complete satisfactorily, for that.
She studied herself in a mirror. Plump, greying, not ageing at all well. However much she tried to convince herself otherwise, she knew it was partly due to overwork. I’m damaging myself as well as my family, she thought gloomily.
There were more important things to worry about than her appearance, as she discovered a moment later when the phone rang.
"Dr Soderstrom, we have your child."
At first she was fazed. "What do you mean? Who are you and what are you talking about?"
"You don't need to know who we are. What matters is that we have Bjorn and you won't be seeing him again until you have performed a small service for us. Do you understand what we are saying?"
She swayed, a wave of nausea washing over her, and almost dropped the receiver.
"Where's Olof? What have you done to him?" To her own ears her faint, quavery voice sounded like someone else's entirely.
"He's OK," said the caller impatiently. "Now listen carefully, I don't want to have to repeat myself."
The following day Karin Soderstrom turned up for work as usual at the National Institute Of Electronic Science. But throughout the day she was unusually withdrawn, burying herself so deep in her work that she barely spoke to her colleagues unless she simply had to. Attempts to find out what was wrong were curtly rebuffed.
She stayed on for a few minutes after everyone else had gone home, then made her way from the building, smiling briefly at the security guard as she passed him.
At seven minutes past eight o'clock a neighbour saw her leave her house in a lime green Lada driven by a man, with another man sitting beside her in the back. As it was growing dark by then the neighbour did not get a good look at the two males but she presumed they were friends or business associates of Karin's.
Next morning, when Soderstrom failed to arrive at the Institute and calls to her home went unanswered, her anxious colleagues decided to contact the local police. They were particularly concerned because at the same time something very important, very important indeed, had gone missing from her laboratory.

The installation was a bit more complete now. The scaffolding was gone from the buildings, revealing them to be little different in appearance from many an industrial concern in the developed world. A few heavy vehicles still stood around.
Patrick Lerpiniere turned from the screen. "There's still no sign of any military activity about the place," he told the meeting. "And it still doesn't look to me like anything necessarily dangerous."
"Except for one thing," said Theodore Malikian. "Look at these lines on the roof." He crossed to the screen and pointed them out with a ruler. They were only faintly visible but they were there, forming a square the size of a tennis court. "I can't see what they might be unless it's designed to open out like some kind of hatch." He stepped back and turned to face the others with a solemn expression.
"So it could be a missile launch silo," Aaron Sternhold said grimly. "I should tell you we've been getting rumours that Saddam has got hold of some old ICBMs from the former Soviet Union."
"That's quite feasible to my mind. But what he hasn't got yet is the nuclear material to put in it, thank God."
"It strikes me that the whole thing has been completed in an incredibly short time." Saddam Hussein, reflected Howie Loomis, could call on all the resources of a totalitarian state, shooting or threatening to shoot anyone who didn't meet their deadlines. "I said it before, but whatever this is it must really matter to him. The whole thing gives me an uneasy feeling."
"It still isn't quite complete enough," Malikian said. "We need to wait just a little bit longer. Then we'll check it out. As I've said before, if there really is nothing wrong then the Iraqis shouldn't have any cause to complain."

Saddam Hussein stepped down from the chauffeur-driven limousine together with his two bodyguards, and cast his eyes approvingly over the sprawling mass of concrete before him. Workmen were swarming insect-like over the scaffolding which enshrouded it.
General Fawzieh came forward and saluted. "I trust you had a pleasant journey, Mr President?"
Saddam nodded. "Yes, thankyou." He glanced again at the complex. "It's coming along well, isn't it?" Fawzieh nodded obediently.
As they approached the partially-completed building the wind blew the smell of freshly-excavated earth, oil and dust churned up by the wheels and tracks of the heavy vehicles towards them. Every so often Saddam would pause to look round with a delighted expression, bringing the party to a halt. Fawzieh imagined his eyes gleaming with fierce relish behind his dark glasses.
Again Saddam was in full military uniform, even though it had long ceased to become him. Of late he had been wearing it all the time, as he had done before the Secretary-General of the United Nations suggested civilian dress would improve his public image by making him seem less aggressive, except when appearing on international television or meeting foreign diplomats.
This was his sixth visit to the complex so far. Each time Fawzieh agreed with every comment Saddam made, and brought up the same things as topics of conversation. There was little scope for variety because Saddam spent so much time visiting the place that on each occasion there wasn't anything new to report, nothing having had time to change. His leader's manner was always confident and cheerful, although underneath it Fawzieh could sense an undercurrent of anxiety, which if anything grew stronger the closer the complex got to completion.
"How is your family?" Saddam asked. "I have not seen them for a while."
"They are all very well, thankyou Mr President. Karim starts school next week."
"I am sorry to hear he has not been well. Send him my love." Saddam was Karim's godfather, and a framed photo of their leader cuddling the boy and beaming down at him with fatherly affection took pride of place on their wall at home.
"And your own family, Mr President? How are they?"
"Well, thankyou," Saddam replied. The smile on his face showed that nowadays he looked on his family with much greater affection.
In the past the main problem had been his elder son and onetime heir Uday, who was little more than a thug - in fact, a rapist and a murderer - and not to be trusted with the kind of power Saddam sought to acquire. After Uday had killed one of his father's bodyguards in a fit of pique Saddam had had him jailed for several months, and afterwards sidelined in favour of his younger brother Qusay. Qusay not only looked like Saddam but also possessed his ruthlessness and capacity for violence; in him these tendencies were, however, more carefully controlled. He was able, hardworking and tended to do what his father told him. Altogether he would make an ideal successor.
By now they were within the complex. Although externally it was almost complete, inside the fitting out had yet to begin. The corridors were bare concrete, and most of the rooms still empty.
"What do you suppose the Americans are thinking, Mr President?" Fawzieh asked. "They must be aware of the complex by now."
"If we seem to be acting in a more peaceful manner, it is less likely that its construction will be viewed in a sinister light," Saddam told him.
"All the same, they are a suspicious people."
"Too much depends on this project for us to abandon it now." Briefly Fawzieh felt a chill of fear as Saddam gave him a suspicious look, seeming to sense disloyal misgivings; but then Saddam was always doing that. "The Americans will get their lackeys at the United Nations to inspect the complex. They will find nothing, of course."
They heard several pairs of feet approach and two soldiers came into view around a corner, supporting a third between them. His eyes were glazed and unseeing and he moved with clumsy, stumbling steps. He looked like someone in a state of deep trauma.
Saddam came to a halt. "What's happened to him?" he demanded.
One of the soldiers opened his mouth to reply, but he was unable to get the words out, dumbstruck by his awe of Saddam. General Fawzieh nodded to him impatiently. "A little of the material leaked out, Mr President," the man answered.
"It happens from time to time, the scientists tell me," Fawzieh said.
"Is he all right?"
"He doesn't seem to be hurt, Mr President," the soldier told them. "But it is like he is asleep."
"They are working on an antidote," Fawzieh said. "It is strange; sometimes it causes physical injury and sometimes it merely produces unconsciousness."
"Then we must succeed in controlling it," Saddam told him, "so that it does what we want it to."
They moved on.
Saddam spent almost half an hour gazing at what was in the complex, with the childlike fascination that overcame him whenever he was near it. Afterwards Fawzieh escorted him to the office that had been constructed for his use whenever he visited the place. It was fully furnished with a thick baize carpet, a massive polished mahogany desk with a telephone, and an Iraqi flag draped across one wall. He asked Fawzieh to leave him there for a time, alone.
The office was decorated with priceless artefacts, some looted from Kuwaiti museums during the occupation, others discovered during government-sponsored archaeological digs. Mounted on one wall were a number of cuneiform tablets. Saddam didn't understand the Chinese-like characters; the tablets were there more for show than for any other reason.
The dominant feature of the collection was a statue of a man with a hooked nose and a short jutting beard of tightly-curled hair. No-one had yet been able to tell him who it was, but it suggested strength, power and majesty. Some king of a city-state in ancient Sumeria, probably. It could even be the fabled Gilgamesh, although Saddam had been told to his disappointment that such a character most likely never existed.
He stood looking at the statue for a long time, thinking.
Although Saddam, unlike most others of his generation who had been concerned with political matters, had no military training his love of the army and passionate devotion to its ways was beyond question. It had been one of the blackest moments of his life when his application to join it had been rejected. He had felt angry and betrayed. Fortunately, you did not need to be a soldier to achieve political ends through the use of force.
Like many Arab students in the 1950s he had become radicalised by the Suez episode, which showed that an Arab nation could successfully stand up to the West if it had the right kind of leadership, and brought about moves towards Arab unity as the prerequisite for challenging American and British domination. He joined the Ba'ath Party and shortly afterwards recommended himself to its leadership by assassinating a prominent supporter of the then Iraqi President, Qassem. As a result he was selected to join the team who attempted unsuccessfully to kill Qassem in 1959. Though much about his role in that episode was embellished, much else was quite true. He had indeed commandeered a car at gunpoint to provide the team with a quick escape once the attempt had failed, and later pulled a gun on those of his colleagues who would have taken a member of the team wounded in a shoot-out with the police to hospital. Such solicitousness for their comrade's welfare would have delayed their getaway and placed them in danger of capture. In Saddam's book there was no place for excessive sentimentality.
Though Saddam had been adept in avoiding his own death, injury or arrest - his escape from the hit team's hideout as the police closed in on it was portrayed as an example of shrewdness not cowardice - he was not lacking in physical courage. For him the commitment to violence as a means of achieving one's political ends overrode any personal fears he might have.
By shrewdness, determination and sheer brutality Saddam had worked his way gradually up the Ba'ath hierarchy. In the fullness of time Qassem was finally assassinated and the party took power. After succeeding to the Presidency of the country in 1979, in a transfer of power which was surprisingly bloodless considering the violence and gore which marked his career before and after it, Saddam finally had control of the army. It could serve as the means by which he achieved all that he wanted for himself and for Iraq. Almost immediately he began making plans for war with Iran, which broke out the following year.
It was to have been a repeat of the battle of Qadisiyyah in AD 636, in which the Arabs inflicted their greatest ever defeat on the Persians. His moment of triumph, the Qadisiyyat Saddam. But instead it had ended in an ignominious stalemate. The taking of Kuwait was meant to have been a compensation for its disappointing outcome. The reaction of the West to the annexation had shocked and surprised him. He had had no choice but to go through with it or face a humiliating climbdown. The result had been disastrous; in just six weeks, his air force had had to seek refuge in Iran and the largest army in the Middle East, and the fourth largest in the world, decimated. The relatively inefficient and old-fashioned Soviet-issue tanks had been destroyed in large numbers along with most of his artillery. Forces better equipped for fighting the First World War than a modern conflict stood little chance against the latest and most advanced Western military hardware; and in particular against guided missiles and smart bombs, imperfect though he knew the latter to be. He had learnt plenty of valuable lessons from the debacle, but it was impossible to put them into practice because the effect of the UN sanctions prevented a thorough programme of modernisation and improvement.
These constant failures angered and depressed him, though fortunately there were always undesirable elements for him to take out his feelings on. But each setback only made him more determined to stay in power, continually scheming for some way to punish those who stood against him. His defeats were merely a symptom of the harshness of life, and meant that you just had to keep on trying until at last you succeeded.
He cast his mind right back to the beginning, to his childhood in the shack of mud bricks where, on 28 April 1937 by the Christian calendar, he had been born into an impoverished society tightly bound by custom. His father died before his birth - at least that was what he had been told - and his mother shortly afterwards remarried. Not only did his stepfather delight in beating him, but
because Saddam was rumoured to be illegitimate and because it went against the usual practice for him to be raised in his stepfather's house he was regarded by other boys as an oddity, a perversion. When he went to and from school each day, he had to carry a steel bar to protect himself from them.
Otherwise he had no personal possessions, nothing he could truly call his own. Then one day, some of his cousins gave him a present. It was a small object made of metal; black and shiny, about a foot long, and cold and smooth to the touch.
It was a gun.

FIVE
You needed a sense of humour as well as fortitude to get by in Saudi. But get by you could.
Caroline spent most of her time, when not at the refinery, in the compound where the foreign employees lived. Within the compound you could do more or less what you liked; it was when you ventured beyond it that you had to be careful. It wasn't quite so bad for men, who could wear casual Western clothing with impunity, but women must scrupulously avoid showing too much flesh. The recommended dress was a long black cloak, or abbaya, and floor-length skirt. In some places you had to make sure everything except the face was covered up, or even wear the veil. Outside those places it wasn't strictly necessary to cover the head although she tended to do so because the first sight of her flowing golden mane would be an invitation to the local menfolk to cluster round her making suggestive remarks. Sometimes, with her eyes hidden by the dark glasses she found useful in warding off the blinding May sunshine, she was almost unrecognisable.
In the end she had settled on a white robe with a hood which she could pull up if desired. She got used to it and in fact, she thought, looked quite fetching in it. In addition, the long loose garment was a practical thing to wear in a hot climate. She wore it even at the refinery where, being a trusted and respected member of the management, she was allowed a certain freedom.
Altogether, the restrictions on dress weren't the most annoying.
She was not allowed to drive, and in restaurants had to sit apart from the men in a special women-only section. Some smaller shops and fast-food restaurants were closed to her entirely. She couldn't travel widely without a male chaperone and she couldn't leave the country or book into a hotel without a letter from a sponsor. There were restrictions on what she could eat and drink - alcohol and pork were definitely out - and you had to remember to take and offer things with the right not the left hand. Cinemas and theatres were banned, and there were plenty of films that couldn't be shown within the compound as the material was not allowed to be brought into the country.
The one good thing about it was that although she often found herself being stared at, followed and made the subject of lewd comments she knew people would be deterred from going any further than that by the strict rules enforcing segregation of the sexes. They'd be in serious trouble if they went too far, and serve them jolly well right. In her own culture, she was used to receiving undue attention from the opposite sex. Here, the intensity of that attention, which stemmed from her being a foreigner and thus, to the male population, something exotic and fascinating, was unnerving but she'd soon learned that if you kept your cool, looked aloof and toffee-nosed, and gave those you'd marked out as potential gropers a hard hostile stare you could deflect the worst of it. You shouldn't of course do anything to encourage them. It ought to be said that at the other end of the scale there were men who seemed nervous, even frightened, at the thought of being in the same room as her, which she found rather sweet.
Though she knew there was no point in complaining, she found the sexual segregation irritating and discriminatory. In relations between Westerners and strict Muslims it was the more liberal culture which was at a disadvantage, since when its members went to live and work in somewhere like Saudi Arabia they had to make all kind of changes to their lifestyle and habits whereas people from Saudi or any other strict Islamic country going to England, though they could not regulate the behaviour of those around them, simply went on living much as they normally would. Living in a free country meant you were allowed to be restrictive, if you were applying the restrictions only to yourself. At heart she knew it was a natural and unavoidable kind of discrimination and there was no sense in protesting about it.
She reflected that it was because the common humanity of the two races was recognised that sexual or other immorality on the part of a Westerner meant the same thing as immorality on the part of a
Saudi, and thus caused offence. They were also afraid that their own people would take up liberal habits. They would certainly demand freedom to do so, or get highly indignant, if they saw Westerners enjoying the privilege of exemption from the restrictions they were obliged to impose on themselves.
In time, she got used to it. There was little other option.
Perhaps the most annoying thing about it all was the hypocrisy. They had been told it was OK to wear bikinis when in the compound swimming pool. It was a not infrequent occurrence for peeping toms to try and sneak a look at them; once someone had come along in a
helicopter and hovered above the pool for several minutes, feasting their eyes on the display of naked female flesh below. It had happened several more times before a strong complaint to the local police had put a stop to the practice.
One plus about living here was that you were generally safe from muggers and pickpockets. She had a sneaking admiration for a society where stealing could be punished by the cutting off of a hand.
In Saudi Arabia men never take their wives out in public. This rule did not apply to foreign, non-Muslim women. That night Caroline was out dining with Hamid Zakaria, the plant's manager, at a top Riyadh restaurant. It was a purely platonic arrangement. Hamid, a cheerful balding little man in his late forties, wore a Western-style suit and tie.
It was something of a working lunch. Most of what they were discussing concerned routine administrative or financial matters. Caroline wanted to talk about security arrangements at the plant in the light of growing attacks by Islamic militants on Western interests in the country, but that had been done to death at a meeting the previous day. Her thoughts kept returning to the subject, and Hamid sensed her fears.
"I still think they would not kill you," he said reassuringly.
"Why? Because I'm an attractive Western woman? Does that make me better than anyone else?"
"No. But many Muslims are sentimental about Western women. Or the Taliban might have killed that reporter they arrested just before the West invaded Afghanistan. You'll observe that they didn't."
"They were trying to curry favour," she said scornfully. "Not that it did them much good in the end."
"If people are mad enough about something they'll forget any other consideration," she continued darkly. "What happened to those tourists in Egypt or the passengers on the hijacked planes on 11th September disproves your theory. There were people like me among them. Anyway, when I get on a plane or go into a building with lots of other people, and you can't see my face, I become an anonymous little statistic who you can quite happily kill if it suits your purposes."
She scanned the room as if in search of something more cheerful to talk about. "Look, there's Jackie and the Prince." A few tables away one of Caroline's colleagues, an attractive auburn-haired girl from South London, was being chatted up by Prince Wahid al-Attah, a handsome Saudi with an impressive jutting beak of a nose. It had became evident to Caroline that a seduction campaign was being mounted by the local dignitaries towards the company's Western female employees, and it was proving by no means unsuccessful. Liaisons were common, the couple often living openly together. Those who had been won over were moved to luxurious apartments in a swanky suburb of the city where visitors were permitted (and where the Muslim women were restricted to the single quarters, into which no men were allowed). The Saudis were not deterred from making overtures to them, nor the objects of their affection from responding positively, while they were already married or in a relationship. It was obvious what went on between them, and the authorities were not particularly bothered by it as long as the partners did not go so far as to marry, which would have been illegal. The converse was not true; a Muslim women who associated in any way with an infidel could face severe social sanctions, and possibly death.
There were plenty of young Western women who had fantasies about marrying Saudi notables and becoming princesses. Prince Wahid had shamelessly exploited such conceits. The Prince had cleverly wangled things so he got to meet Jackie, won her over with his charm, and soon installed her in his palatial villa. A chauffeured limousine conveyed her to and from work each day. After meeting him she had become preoccupied and uncommunicative, and gradually withdrew from the social life of the compound.
"I think I'd better have a word with her," Caroline sighed.
"Somehow I don't think it will do much good," Hamid muttered.
"I'm game for a laugh." She scrutinised the couple closely. "Why do you think there is all this interest in Western women over here?"
"Opposites attract," Hamid suggested. "But there is more to it than that.
"We consider ourselves impotent if we cannot indulge in…sexual intercourse more than two or three times a day. The late King Ibn Saud always said it was the thing most worth living for. And King Abdul-Aziz, the founder of our country, married his first wife when he was fifteen and is said altogether to have had three hundred women during his lifetime, in addition to slaves and concubines; the exact figure is difficult to determine. We need more than we can get from the four wives we are allowed by law."
"And you?" she asked.
"I have the fortune to be happily married." He laughed. "Of course it is not always possible to have sex three times a day, but I do my best."
"It's not that you are more promiscuous than we are," he asserted, anticipating the indignant complaint Caroline had been about to make. "We admit that people are much the same everywhere. We don't deny a person's natural urges, we simply have a different means of letting them out. For example, we allow a man to have more than one wife; or to commit adultery with concubines, prostitutes or unmarried women, though that is not the case in every Muslim country. What Muslims find strange, even offensive, about the West is not the promiscuity but the fact that you are so hypocritical about it. Bigamy is illegal but adultery is widely and unofficially sanctioned. Your sexual mores are puzzling and confused."
"They're not, not really. I mean, I don't think physical infidelity is the worst damage you can inflict on a marriage."
"So would you...sleep around, if you were married?"
"No," she said emphatically.
"Well then!" Hamid smiled, feeling his point was proven.
Caroline was forced to concede defeat.
"So," he went on. "That is one reason. We also believe that if a Saudi woman and man are left alone together, they are sure to have sex. That is why they must be segregated." This seemed irrational to Caroline. The idea, as soon became clear, seemed to be to prevent women from being promiscuous but not men.
"But," Hamid added ruefully, "often it simply contributes to the problem. The sex drive becomes even stronger and the only way for a man to satisfy it is to have intercourse with foreign women - air hostesses, nurses, business executives like yourself, technicians. If necessary they will go to England or America to find them." They must be non-Muslims because to have sex with a Muslim woman other than your wife would be socially dangerous - and for the woman, could lead to death.
"It still seems to me that Western women are being used mainly to fulfil the naughty little desires people can't indulge back home. It'd make me feel dirty and degraded." She wouldn't go with someone she knew to be married in any case, but now the idea of sex with a Saudi man seemed particularly offputting.
"I can understand why you should feel like that. But what harm is there in it?"
"I'm not sure," Caroline mused.
The next day, at a time when she and Jackie were alone in the office, Caroline seized her chance. She drew a deep breath and went up to her. "Jackie, it may not be any of my business but I felt I had to talk to you. About you and Prince Wahid; do you really think it's a good idea? I mean, he's already got two wives."
"Then I'll become a Muslim," said Jackie.
"Just so you can marry him?" Somehow she found this use of religion purely for social convenience offended her.
"It's no problem. I can stand all the weird things they have to do if it means we can be together."
That wasn't what Caroline had meant, but she didn't want to sound like a vicar.
"You know he's just doing it for the sex, don't you? He's been trying to get his greedy claws on just about every woman on the compound. He had a go at seducing me the other day." People had been making Caroline offers on an almost daily basis, feting her with presents of all kinds which she politely refused. They would try to fix it so that they got to meet her by offering bribes to her associates and colleagues. "Yes, I do," said Jackie. "And I don't care."
She grinned wickedly. "They're bloody good in bed. He's not the first one I've had. You ought to try them."
"So it's just the sex?"
"And the money, the jewels and all that. I'm only taking what I can get. You have to in this world, as I see it."
"What would your family think?"
"It's not up to them, is it?"
"It's much better with him than it is in the compound," Jackie went on. "I'm onto a good thing here and I'd be daft not to see it."
"No, there's nothing wrong with it." Jackie stared hard at Caroline. "You're not racist are you, by any chance?"
"No I'm not, thanks. I'm just concerned that you're embarking on something which hasn't got a hope of lasting and could end in tears. If he really loves you, fine. But I don't think he does, somehow."
"Well thanks for your concern," said Jackie, "But I know what's good for me." She turned on her heels and stalked off.
Caroline gazed after her, pursing her lips.
Maybe it was just harmless fun after all; the Prince would probably jettison Jackie in a few weeks, once the novelty had worn off. Shrugging, she went back to her work.

The meeting of the Security Council had not taken long to decide that an inspection of the complex at Quarat was warranted. In view of his previous UNSCOM experience Theodore Malikian was considered the obvious person to lead the inspection team, and he had immediately obeyed the summons to New York, although rueful at having to interrupt his teaching for an indefinite period. Now, in a committee room within the United Nations building he was giving the team its briefing.
It was a happy reunion; he'd worked with them all before, though not recently. Some were full-time UN officials, others on loan from their various governments. A reasonably even balance had to be maintained between the two; he hoped they'd got it about right. There had to be career international civil servants to give the impression that the UN was an independent body and not just a tool of its constituent states. But often there were few people within the organisation with the expertise required to do whatever job had come up, because it suffered from financial cutbacks and couldn't always afford to pay its staff. Malikian was also concerned that the lapse of time since anyone had had to put their skills into practice might have caused those skills to ossify, although to think so seemed uncharitable towards people he knew.
He studied the faces before him. Zeke Masalawu was a black South African who looked a bit like Nelson Mandela and like Mandela was of royal blood. Malikian thought he worked for the United Nations because it was a noble calling, and thus befitted one of his ancestry. He was a quiet, thoughtful man whose unassuming manner betrayed, Malikian knew, a certain inner strength. He was an expert in nuclear weapons. John Cardall (missile technology) was a greying, middle-aged Australian who tended to speak his mind, often in highly colourful language. Brigitta Carlsson of Denmark, a plump, motherly blonde in her fifties, and a close friend and colleague of Malikian's, was a photographer and also an Arabic speaker. She would take the photos, study the documentation and also act as Malikian's personal assistant and press agent. Yukio Ohama (chemical weapons) had been appointed to advise the Japanese government on his area of expertise following the gas attack by a terrorist group in a Tokyo subway in 1995. He was a friendly, considerate man, if sometimes inscrutable like many of his race. Felipe Soares of Portugal knew all there to know about bacteriological warfare. Malikian himself was to handle all diplomatic aspects of the mission as well as be its "conceptual thinker".
"It's a long time since we've been in Iraq, so let me fill you all in on what we're going to have to do," Malikian began.
It certainly was a long time. UNSCOM had been created as part of the implementation of the UN resolution of April 1991 calling on Iraq to give up its weapons of mass destruction. The idea was that it would work closely with the International Atomic Energy Authority, which had general responsibility for regulating the spread of nuclear technology, but co-operation between the two bodies had not always been smooth. That had been only one of the problems which had hampered UNSCOM's effectiveness. Over the years fatigue at the constant Iraqi backsliding and evasiveness wore down UN resistance, and eventually clever manoeuvring by the Iraqis which split the Security Council, usurping of its functions by the Council, and disagreements between its officials and their own governments had put an end to the Commission. As unavoidably happens in matters like these things UNSCOM had developed its own distinct culture and many UN officials and member states, wrongly, believed it had its own agenda and should not be trusted.
But now the renewed concentration on Iraq after September 11th, and Saddam's apparent decision to meet his enemies at least half way, had led to its revival. While Malikian and his team were checking out the mysterious plant near Quarat other UN teams, hastily assembled from among the available experts, would be inspecting various arms dumps around the country to assure themselves that the weapons Saddam had marked for destruction did not lack vital components from which a new arsenal could be built elsewhere, and then supervising their disposal.
This time there would be no repeat of the mistakes made in the past. While politically no overt distinction would be made between UNSCOM and the UN Security Council, in practice the latter would be the sole arbiter of what needed to be done in order to solve the problem of Saddam's WMDs.
"We know what to look for when we get there," Malikian said. High security, meaning troops and double security fences, along with the absence of building documentation would show that an installation was a high-priority government project, probably involving weapons of some kind. Plant for the manufacture of nuclear and chemical weapons was large and relatively easy to identify; that for missile and bioweapons production less so. But the way the buildings on the site were dispersed and the presence of air-conditioned storage bunkers might nonetheless suggest a bacterial weapons plant. In all cases they would need to look at the volume of traffic that came in and out of the site.
They knew what to ask for from the Iraqis. Unrestricted freedom of movement into, out of and within the country. The right to make visits without notice, and to enter any installation to examine, remove and if necessary destroy any material which looked as if it might be used in WMD manufacture; interview all relevant personnel; and install permanent equipment for the purpose of monitoring a site. During the inspection Iraq would be responsible for accommodating the inspection team and providing them with any facilities they might require.
Brigitta would scan production records and other documents and make an inventory of all items earmarked for confiscation. Papers would have to be subjected to forensic analysis to establish that they were not forgeries. Equipment had to be tagged and permanent video cameras installed.
They knew what they might be coming up against, from the evidence of previous UNSCOM missions. The Iraqis, Malikian warned, might reconfigure the site, remove incriminating material whether in the shape of documents, personnel or equipment, from it - they would have to look for dirt lines and indentations in the floors and walls suggesting heavy items had been shifted about - or confiscate what the UN did manage to lay its hands on. Access to the sites might be refused point blank. Would there, Malikian wondered, be a repeat of the incident where the inspectors had climbed to the top of a water tower to survey the site, observing a convoy of trucks - which contained magnets used in the enriching of weapons-grade uranium - leaving the place and chasing after them to take photographs with Iraqi soldiers firing over their heads? Or the one where they had confiscated material from a chemical plant only to be trapped in a parking lot for eight days, during which they communicated with the outside world by satellite phone, by soldiers demanding return of the documents.
If necessary, should the Iraqis stonewall over allowing them entry to a site, they were prepared to pick locks or break down doors.
But it didn't look like they would be encountering any of those problems. The letter from the Secretary-General to the Iraqi foreign minister setting out what was required had received a reply almost immediately. In it the Iraqis had cordially granted permission to look over the site, earnestly stressing that everything the inspection team might need was at their disposal. Every condition they had laid down had been granted. Even the presence of Americans in the inspection team - inevitable because many of the experts in the relevant fields happened to be of that nationality - did not cause any friction.
"I wish I knew what we're going to find when we get there," Malikian said as he closed the meeting.
"The Iraqis wouldn't have been so happy to let us go there at all unless the place was harmless," said Brigitta.
"Something about this business just doesn't ring true," Malikian growled. "It's all too simple, too easy."
"You can never be sure with those bastards," Cardall remarked.
"Well," Malikian sighed, "something tells me this assignment is going to turn out to be very interesting, whatever happens."

Caroline had been invited to a function at the house of a prominent local businessman and dignitary. A servant met her at the entrance and showed her into the sumptuously furnished drawing room, which smelt heavily of perfume, rosewater and sandalwood. In one corner a portable stereo was playing soft music. Flowers had been arranged on delicately carved little tables. The lights were dim.
She was greeted by an attractive Western woman, in her forties but still glamorous. Tall, honey-blonde, with high cheekbones and green-grey eyes, she wore a long, flowing white robe and was bedecked with jewels. Identifying herself as Helena Southern, she introduced Caroline to the sheikh and to the other guests, who were mostly business associates of his. They hailed from a variety of countries in Europe, the Middle East and Asia.
It was quite obvious what Helena was. She handled all the sheikh's domestic affairs, managing his servants and acting as chaperone to his guests. But although it wasn't expressly admitted, their relationship clearly went further than that. Several times, when Caroline was trying to pretend she hadn't guessed the truth, Helena winked at her and gave her a confidential, rather wicked smile.
Chatting to the woman, Caroline learned that she came from North London and had met the sheikh at a diplomatic function; she had at that time been working at the Embassy, giving up her job shortly afterwards to live with him. She seemed to be from a conventional, respectable middle-class background.
The sheikh did have one wife but she and their five children lived away.
Helena had no regrets, seeming to enjoy the role of hostess and courtesan. "I like this life," she told Caroline. "I've no plans to go home. I might even marry him."
But would she be happy to stay, Caroline thought, if anti-Western feeling in the Gulf continued to grow? Would she be safe?
After nattering to Helena and the guests for a while longer, sipping wine and champagne, Caroline wandered over to see what was going on in an adjacent room whose entrance was partly concealed by a tapestry. Music was faintly audible from within.
The sight that met her eyes almost knocked her backwards. Watched by a dozen or so Arab men, a number of European girls were dancing rather indifferently around a table. One of them began a tuneless rendition of a current pop song, stumbling over the words and often saying rather than singing them. All told it was a pathetic performance. None of the girls, Caroline noted, was wearing very much.
Suddenly she found the tapestry abruptly pulled shut, blocking the girls from her view. Evidently no-one was meant to see what was going on here. She pursed her lips.
She went back into the living room, where Helena introduced her to a few more of the guests. She got talking to a group of the sheikh's friends about life in Saudi and Britain and how the two cultures compared. She was asked what she did for a living, whether she had a boyfriend, whether she intended to get married and when.
One of the men, who looked as if he had had a little too much to drink, addressed her in Arabic. "What did he say?" Caroline asked. Another grinned sheepishly. "He is saying he would like to make love to you."
Caroline laughed good-naturedly, shaking her head. "I'm afraid you can't expect me to say yes just like that," she smiled. "We're not actually like that where I come from, most of us anyway."
"Besides," she laughed, "I'm very expensive - "
She broke off abruptly. The Saudi who had propositioned her was regarding her with a venomous expression, rage and hatred blazing in his eyes. The atmosphere in the room turned to frozen glass.
Slowly, he stood up and walked towards her, his fists clenched and his arms held rigidly by his sides. His mouth twisted and he said something in Arabic; a single word, delivered in a harsh rasping fashion. His friends chose not to translate it.
At a loss what to say, Caroline just stood there, staring at him. His arm lashed out and his fist caught her on the side of the head, causing her to stagger. She was briefly dazed.
The other two men rounded on him furiously, shouting at him to control himself and telling him in no uncertain terms what a fool he was. He calmed down immediately, alarmed at what he had done and the reaction it had produced.
The sheikh went over to her. "I am sorry," he spluttered, clearly very embarrassed.
Caroline didn't feel she wanted to take it further. "That's OK," she said simply.
"He will not be showing his face in here again," he vowed. And indeed the man wasn't seen again after the incident, at some point sneaking away in disgrace.
"Perhaps we'd better have a look at your face?"
She studied herself in a mirror. "No, it's alright. It's just a bruise, it'll go away soon." The sheikh nodded, and went to see to another group of guests, murmuring his apologies to them.
Helena took her aside. "Are you sure you're OK?"
Caroline was more shaken than she would admit to. "What was I expected to do?" she protested. "I mean, if he really thought I was going to..."
"He got angry because you were a Westerner laughing at an Arab," Helena said. "In his book, women aren't supposed to refuse a request for sexual intercourse."
"They're not all like that here though, are they?" It was the first time anything like this had happened during Caroline's time in the country.
"Of course not. There's just a few bad hats, same as anywhere else. I'm afraid you can't always tell who they are."
She went on chatting happily to Helena and the guests as if the incident had never happened, doing her best to put it out of her mind.
She noticed the sheikh go over to the tapestry and draw it back. Almost immediately the music stopped and she heard the sounds of hurried movement.
Just before the function ended, Caroline chanced to witness the sheikh having an angry confrontation with Helena. The British woman looked utterly shocked, partly by the force of the sheikh's wrath and partly, Caroline was sure, because she had had no idea what was going on in the curtained-off room.
It was a weird business, she thought. All she could do was clock it up to experience.

After a stopover in London the UN team had boarded a plane to the Habbaniyah International Airport near Baghdad; they were now well out over the Atlantic. Malikian had already sent his usual circular round welcoming everybody to the mission, following it up later with one of his regular briefings, in which he made sure everyone knew what their responsibilities were and had what they needed to fulfil them. Now they were all enjoying coffee and a chat. Their mood was subdued, but fairly optimistic. Most of them shared Malikian's conviction that things would not run as smoothly as expected, although they were prepared for anything.
"All this just seems so uncharacteristic of Saddam," Malikian was saying. "It's out of line with everything he's done in the past. And a leopard doesn't change its spots."
"Well, I certainly don't trust him," snorted Brigitta. "The man is loathsome. He could get sanctions lifted if he co-operated with us a bit more. But he lets his own people die just to make the West look cruel. He cuts off his nose to spite his face." Saddam had withheld distribution of UN-supplied food because it implied he could not look after his own people, and so he could punish those who he suspected opposed him without the bother of ordering their execution.
"He doesn't want to be seen as weak, that's why," Malikian said. "But I don't think the Iraqi people would bother much. For one thing, they can't imagine anyone else being in power and are nervous about any change. He hasn't got a heck of a lot to worry about; and he must know that. It's just a duel between him and the West and he doesn't care if ordinary Iraqis suffer as a result of it."
"Hopefully, all that's coming to an end now," said Felipe Soares.
"But all those years of violence, and war...why?" Brigitta shook her head in weary disgust. "Why is the man such a brute?"
Malikian laughed. "Do you know, "Saddam" means "the one who confronts." But to answer your question, I think it's a matter of environment. He had an awful childhood, you know - with these things it always boils down to having had an awful childhood, in the end. He was beaten very badly by his stepfather, bullied by the other kids at school. He had no possessions of his own until he was ten, and when he did get one it was a gun. Is it any surprise the way he turned out?"
"You're expressing sympathy for him?"
"I'm just saying people like Saddam, or Bin Laden, are human, despite what they do, and it's as human beings - seriously flawed ones - that we have to understand them. They have their story to tell, their reasons for being what they are."
"It doesn't excuse it, Theo."
"Of course I know it doesn't excuse it. But it does explain it."
He leaned back in his seat reflectively, clasping his hands over the pit of his stomach. "You know, Saddam Hussein is a unique phenomenon. There's nothing else quite like him in the world today. No more Hitler, Stalin, Franco or Mao. I admit there's a danger you can make him into something he isn't, but I don't think the comparison with Hitler, say, is at all facile as some have suggested. He persecutes minorities and he has the power to threaten international stability by what he does, or the threat of it. I rest my case. He's able to frighten the world and by that ability change it in unpleasant ways."
"And the West gave him that power," pointed out Zeke. "You built him up, if you don't mind my saying so Theo."
Malikian snorted. "My conscience is clear as far as that's concerned. We gave him all those weapons because at the time it was Iran which seemed to be the principal threat, not him. Iran which was making all the anti-Western statements, Iran which had a virulent hatred for the whole Western way of life. He was a counter to it. It's like saying we shouldn't have supported Stalin against the Nazis. We should have let them overrun the whole world and kill everyone who wasn't a pure Aryan. And what we gave him, Saddam took eagerly. You could say that if I give you a gun it doesn't mean you have the right to use it to kill me. Or anyone else for that matter.
"Not so long ago I lived for a while in England, while I was on an associate fellowship at Oxford, and there was a series being shown on TV about the great dictators, of whom Saddam is maybe the last. After Hitler, Stalin, Napoleon et al they finished off with him. It basically said our perception of Saddam as an international bogeyman was motivated by racism. We saw Arabs as unstable and dangerous people who threatened our way of life. They had to put everything through a politically correct filter. I'm not noted for being a foaming-at-the-mouth reactionary, but I was disappointed. They were talking bullshit because the West has never had a monopoly of evil and power-hungry people - we all know that and might even be prepared to admit to it, but in practice we don't act as if we think it's the case.
"It's happening partly for geopolitical reasons and partly because it's inevitable in the end given the global village and the exchange of ideas, information and commodities. But if the Middle East, in the modern world, can produce people like Saddam who have the capacity to cause conflict on a regional scale and threaten international security, whereas previously it was the West and Russia who did that, it's example of history moving on. I'd been looking forward to the programme and when I saw it I was annoyed because they'd missed the chance to raise that point.
“They also failed to discuss the psychology of the man. He's a more complex character than people suppose. Although he works through fear rather than personal magnetism, I'm told he's not without a certain sense of humour."
"I was going to ask, Theo," said Brigitta. "About his religion. How much does that matter to him? Presumably he's a Muslim of some kind."
"Yes, nominally he's a Sunni Muslim. But in fact he only plays the religious card, acts like a devout believer, when it suits him. He has no faith except power; his own ego and self-aggrandisement. Although in his own way, I think he genuinely does hate the Jews and anything that threatens Arab interests."
"Unless he really does intend to wipe us all out with some superweapon, which would lead to his own destruction, or gives himself a new legitimacy by embracing the cause of peace, I would say Saddam is finished," said Zeke. "As an international bogeyman, anyway. He can do no more than maintain his grip on his own country. If he tries to extend his power any further the West will destroy him."
"I guess you're right. Of course he has to rattle a few sabres every now and then to make sure the world doesn't forget he's there, and to retain his prestige among his own people. Middle Eastern leaders like him and Gaddafi need to strike a certain balance between not bringing down the wrath of the West upon them, with appalling consequences, and being seen to stand up to what is seen as Western bullying. That's why Gaddafi makes a conciliatory statement one day and the next says something provocative, like let's kick all the whites out of Zimbabwe, or tries to get his hands on something he can use to make a nuclear bomb with."
"Whatever the case, he's always there," said Cardall wearily. "Saddam, that is. Always. Like a bad dream the world can't manage to shake off."
"Do you think there's any possibility of him being overthrown, Theo?" Brigitta asked eagerly.
Malikian shook his head slowly and with certainty. "It would be easy but for one thing. Everyone's too worried they might be the guy who gets shot in the process. Saddam's taken steps to insure himself against the possibility, of course. Everybody in an official position only knows their immediate superior, who takes care to keep them in the dark - as he himself is kept in the dark - about important decisions until the very last moment. Among other things it means nobody dares criticise the government because most of the time you don't know the person you're speaking to, how important he is. The guy who cleans out the toilets may have more power than the boss, especially if he's a member of the Ba'ath party. It means your colleague or even your boss can be openly criticised for insufficient loyalty to the state because he shows up late for work. That destroys the authority of managers and reduces their effectiveness, and also eats away at personal integrity. It's one reason why Iraq is governed so inefficiently. Saddam doesn't mind because for him the main thing is preserving his position.
"It's ruling not just by dividing people, but by keeping them ignorant. Saddam's a thug, but he's a fairly astute one, in some ways. Or he wouldn't still be with us.
"He's content in the end to rule through fear while seeing the additional benefits to be gained from the occasional stunt; handing out money and colour TVs in poor areas, opening up a hotline for people to ring him with their complaints about poor administration, and stepping in now and again to free someone's son or husband from a sentence of life imprisonment. He also exploits morality for propaganda purposes. He's said to have publicly shot an army officer in the war with Iran who gave an order to retreat rather than shoot down lots of teenage Iranian Revolutionary Guards. It was a lie to cover the fact that the Iraqis had simply been defeated, and it had the additional advantage of suggesting his officers were morally honourable men even if that nobility was misplaced. God, it makes me puke."
"And you reckon we're stuck with him for the time being. But what about the Army, say? Surely - "
"He's got the military completely under his control. No-one can be an officer if they're not a member of the Ba'ath Party, and they have to refer it to the party leadership when making important decisions. A soldier can disobey the orders of a superior who isn't a member. Any soldier or member of the police force who engages in unlicensed political activity gets the death penalty.
"No, Saddam can get away with just about anything. He can claim he's descended from the Prophet, which he knows is utter crap, because he also knows no-one will dare to question it. It shows the contempt he has for his people."
"Do you suppose that..." began Brigitta. "I mean, that thing about him not being seen for ages, and bodyguards standing in for him all the time..."
"Oh, that rumour!" Malikian smiled. "Well, I must admit I've had my suspicions. The photos and film clips you see of Saddam often look like they were shot way back. But that's because he doesn't want to dispel the myth of his invulnerability by being seen to age in the normal manner. I'm sure he started the rumour, like he's started plenty of others, just to keep people guessing. The West he'll taunt for its own sake, and at home the hoax serves to test people's loyalty by their reactions. In 1983 he pretended there'd been a coup attempt for the same reason. No, I think Saddam's very much alive.
"It's one man we're dealing with. One man who'll pull out a gun and shoot you if you make even the slightest criticism of his regime. Several members of his family have gone that way already. And who you don't want to shoot yourself because you're not sure what other people's reaction will be, who the Saddam loyalists are.
"One man who cannot be reasoned with except by force. Our only hope is that he'll die in the not too distant future. Before he sets the world on fire again. Always assuming, of course, that that's what he's aiming to do."

The review of conditions at the refinery had now been completed, and Caroline's stay in the Kingdom was at an end. Still wearing her chabrah, she was dropped off at the airport by Hamid.
While she was waiting to board her flight, her eyes roved around the busy foyer of the terminal building, studying her fellow travellers with interest. Her attention was caught, and held, by a group of women who stood close together in a corner as if they preferred not to be seen. All wore the regulation black abayya.
From their faces, the only part of them that wasn't covered up, it could be seen that they were young, none of them over thirty, mostly fair-skinned and all European. They chatted happily to one another.
Standing at the edge of the group, though clearly a part of it, was a tall powerfully-built man with a swarthy complexion. He was continually pacing up in down, his hands in his pockets, his expression watchful and alert, always keeping within a foot or so of the girls. Another man stood a little further away, smoking a cigarette and eyeing everything in sight.
Caroline found herself becoming intrigued by the group. She realised she was staring at them and was about to move away, in case it seemed impolite, when one of the girls happened to catch her eye.
Caroline gaped at her, her eyes widening in sheer astonishment. "Mandy?!!!?"
The hair was hidden by the chabrah, but there was no mistaking the face.
Mandy looked equally astonished. She managed a smile.
"What are you doing here?" Caroline gasped.
Mandy didn't get the chance to answer. Caroline sensed a sudden swift movement close by her, and a loud voice barked in her ear, causing her to jump. She whirled round. The tall man was advancing towards her, his expression and bearing hostile.
"Go away!" he snapped in English. His voice was harsh and threatening. "Go away! It's nothing to do with you, OK? Go away!"
Caroline stared at him. "What's nothing to do with me?"
"I said go away!"
She wavered for a moment, but stood her ground. "Hey, don't you talk to me like that."
"Just go away. She doesn't want to be bothered, OK?"
"I can talk to her if I like," said Caroline.
He clenched his fist and thrust it right up to her face, shouting something in Arabic.
"You lay a finger on me and you'll regret it," she warned. She hoped she wouldn't have to carry out her threat, and cause a scene. Here women were supposed to be meek, subservient creatures. If they caused a disturbance in a public place they were not likely to receive sympathetic treatment from the police.
The girls looked on, showing no reaction except for a slight trace of apprehension. Then one of them went up to her, took her aside and whispered in her ear. "Better do as he says, love. We don't want any trouble."
Her accent, Caroline noted, was pure Yorkshire.
Caroline hesitated for a moment. Then, stiffly, she turned and strode away, giving the minder one last dirty look over her shoulder to save her face. The man's gaze followed her suspiciously.
She was not only angry, white-faced and quivering with repressed fury, but also disturbed at the encounter. She decided to make use of the relative freedom she enjoyed over her own affairs, being a senior executive, and stay on in Saudi a little longer. There were one or two things she wanted to find out.

SIX
Dr Hans Eckige plodded wearily down Prinzwillemstrasse in Cologne, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his plump face wearing its usual morose expression. Occasionally someone would greet him with a smile and a friendly "hello". It was grimly ironic, he thought, that he was received best by those he knew least.
He was coming back from his usual Sunday evening walk in the park a couple of miles from his flat. There, as always on such excursions, he had reflected on the course his life was taking without arriving at any solution to his problems
Feeling suddenly weary, he paused to sit on a bench and rest for a while, losing himself in his thoughts.
One reason for the cancellation of the project which had been his life's work was the relative economic decline the country was experiencing. Partly, it was a consequence of having to absorb the clumsy and backward East German infrastructure. When money was not as abundant as had once been the case, there was no justification in spending it on a project whose worth was unproven. And which too many people were simply not interested in, or dismissed as an absurd flight of fancy.
There was one other scientist, in England, who thought on similar lines and the two of them had met and corresponded; but that other had, like him, met only with failure.
Eckige's bitterness at his rejection had soured his relations with his colleagues. There had been a few sharp words, unjust accusations on both sides, and now he hardly ever spoke to them, or vice versa, if it could be helped.
To his disenchantment most of his time was now spent lecturing rather than on actual research. He knew at heart that he had been unreasonable in breaking off all contact with his former colleagues, but in his depression he lacked the will to overcome the festering resentment he continued to feel.
The photon project had been his life's work, his only interest; some would have said it was an obsession. Now that it was scrapped there wasn't much left for him to do. No other field interested him much. It might help if he could have had the comfort and support of a wife; but Eckige remained lonely, because he had spent too much of his life buried in his work and now found he didn't know how to go about finding a partner, how to relate to the opposite sex.
The beautiful strains of a choir drifted to him from the church across the road. He wondered if he should abandon science altogether and seek solace in religion. It sometimes seemed the only option open to him. Maybe he'd pay the church a visit next Sunday.
It was dark by the time he lifted himself off the bench and turned towards the apartment block where he lived. Halfway up the stairs he bumped into the woman from the flat next to his, and they exchanged cursory nods. That was about the extent of his contact with the other residents of the block.
At the top of the stairs he went through an internal door into the corridor that divided the uppermost floor and turned to the left.
He stopped in surprise. Two men were standing by the door of his apartment, evidently waiting for him, their hands in the pockets of their light summer overcoats. They looked up as he approached, and smiled. Both were in their thirties and fair-haired.
Eckige hadn't imagined that anyone would be interested in him these days. "Can I help you?" he asked curiously.
"Dr Eckige, could we have a word with you in confidence?" The man spoke with a strong Middle Eastern accent.
"What about?" Eckige demanded.
"We are representatives of the Jordanian government," the man said by way of reply.
Jordan? That was a friendly country, so he supposed it would be all right. "Very well, come in," he said, and they stepped back to let him unlock the door.
He ushered them inside. Like the homes of many scientists the flat was hopelessly untidy, strewn alike with books, papers and domestic items. He invited them to seat themselves on the sofa while he planted himself in an armchair opposite them.
His eyes had lit up somewhat. Whatever this was, it sounded important and therefore possibly of benefit to him. He regarded the two men expectantly.
The older of them, the one who had made the initial approach, opened the conversation. "Dr Eckige, our government is currently involved in scientific research of a kind with which you may be able to help us."
Eckige started, his eyes gleaming even brighter. He liked the sound of this. "What kind of research?"
"Two years ago you published a paper on the use of light as a means of propulsion. Your colleagues, however, were not quite so enthusiastic and your application for a research grant was refused. You have had no luck elsewhere. It is clear you found the situation extremely disappointing."
"You're well-informed," Eckige commented.
"We had to carry out some research of our own in order to find someone such as yourself. Anyhow, it turns out there is something to which your work may have an application."
"What is it?" Eckige asked, his excitement mounting.
"We would like you to examine this." The Jordanian took a small metal casket, the size and shape of a spectacle case, from his pocket and placed it on the table in front of Eckige. He opened it to reveal a shard of a gleaming white substance that looked like crystal.
"If you were to examine this material in a laboratory, you would find that it has some very interesting properties. It is harder than any other known substance. It took many months before we were able to detach even this one sliver of it." He nodded towards a paper knife on the desk. "Try to cut it and you will see for yourself."
Eckige complied, placing one hand on the object while the other held the knife. After several minutes' grunting exertion he was unable to make the slightest impression. "It's tougher than diamond."
"Now turn the fire on up to full."
Eckige did as requested. "Hold the fragment close to it."
He placed it half an inch from the glowing bars, just far enough away to avoid singing his fingers.
"Keep it there for a minute or two."
After that time had elapsed Eckige withdrew it. To his amazement the object wasn't even slightly warm. In fact it was still cold, almost painfully so, to the touch.
Switching the fire off, he turned slowly to his two guests. "That's impossible."
"Evidently it is not."
"I've never seen anything like it before," he said wonderingly. "Where does it come from? How did you find it?"
"It comes from something which was ploughed up by one of our farmers a few months ago. Let me elaborate."
Eckige listened to the man with a feeling of total incredulity. Afterwards he slumped in his chair and gaped at him like a fish, astonished and disorientated. "Are...are you telling the truth?"
"What you have just seen proves it. And take a look at these." The Iraqi opened a briefcase and extracted a sheaf of blown-up black-and-white photographs. Eckige studied them carefully, fascinated but still a little wary. "They could be faked."
"We would be happy to let you see the object for yourself. As a physicist I am sure you would find it a most interesting experience."
"It's crazy," he gasped.
Too crazy, he realised giddily, to be just a hoax. No-one would come to you with a story like that and expect you to believe it unless it was actually true.
After a moment he said quietly, "and what exactly do you want me to do with this thing?"
"To find out how its powers can be fully harnessed."
"For what purpose? You're being a little evasive." His eyes narrowed. "I thought your country was supposed to be friendly towards the West. What's going on?"
The other man smiled. "I think it is time we told you the truth, Dr Eckige. Had we done so in the beginning I suspect you would not have agreed to see us. We are not Jordanians, we are Iraqis."
The German stiffened, then his mouth dropped open again. You don't look like Iraqis, he thought feverishly.
The Iraqi guessed his thoughts and smiled. As a consequence of migration or slavery there were fair-skinned, fair-haired people in the Middle East, although not that many of them. Occasionally the genetic lottery produced some whose features and complexion were so Nordic that they would never be taken for Arabs. It had been a sensible tactic for the Iraqi secret service to use such specimens for Saddam's European recruitment drive; there would be no sightings of suspicious-looking Middle Eastern types to establish a link with their part of the world.
Eckige found his astonishment turning to indignation. Iraq. "And...and you think I will help you?"
"Your life's work so far has been inconclusive, in that no-one will provide the funds and facilities to see it through to its conclusion. And you are not getting any younger. We offer you the chance to complete it, and to be appreciated for your achievement. When the news of our discovery, and of the role you have played in developing it, is released to the world you will be famous. Don't you want that?"
Eckige bowed his head. There was no doubt he did. But...
He looked up. "And why haven't you told people about this already?"
"There is so much suspicion of our country these days...it would be decided that we were planning to use our discovery for aggressive purposes. Action would be taken against us, and we have already suffered enough from bombs and sanctions."
Eckige stared hard at him, obviously not convinced. "I don't like it," he said unhappily. "Iraq."
"Power is our concern, Dr Eckige. We need it so that we can reshape the world in a new and better form. We are regarded as a pariah state but in truth we are no different from anyone else, with our own needs, priorities and aspirations. We want to be allowed to make our impact on the world, our own contribution to human progress. Let me tell you more of our plans."
As they did so, Eckige reeled. If it hadn't been for the evidence of the fragment and of the photographs he'd have decided some kind of practical joke was being played on him.
"We can offer you a handsome salary. Our President will be extremely grateful to you for your assistance, and may wish to reward you in other ways too."
This didn't assuage his qualms. "It…it's..." He searched in vain for the right word. Monstrous?
"You yourself are not enamoured with the current state of the world, are you? It has not been kind to you."
"I still can't believe it," Eckige murmured.
"We do not have long, Dr Eckige. We require a decision here and now."
Eckige's hands flew to his forehead. This couldn't be happening to him; it was cruel, so cruel. His brief reconciliation with God was roughly shaken; the Almighty must have a sick sense of humour. Why did the offer have to come from someone like Saddam? He couldn't take it up and he found that agonising, because he so badly needed the benefits it would provide.
Perhaps this was meant to be a test.
"You appear to be in two minds about it, Dr Eckige," observed the younger Iraqi drily.
Suddenly Eckige made up his mind. "No," he sighed, his head sinking deeper into his hands. "No, I'm sorry. Not if it's Iraq. It's quite out of the question."
"There is no chance of you changing your mind?"
"None whatsoever. I think you are wasting your time here."
"After all you have seen, everything we have shown you, you are still determined to refuse us?"
He was getting agitated, the more so because the temptation to go back on his resolution was stronger than he would have preferred. "Yes. Now please go." He stood up.
The two Iraqis got up and made for the door. "Naturally we are disappointed, Dr Eckige, but if that is your wish there is little we can do. Please contact us if you do decide to reconsider your position. Our interests in Germany are being handled through the Jordanian Embassy."
Eckige opened the door for them, and they left without a word. Feeling shaken, he went and sat down, losing himself in a haze of conflicting thoughts and emotions. The thought of the opportunity he had just missed continued to torment him.
After a while he pulled himself together. Someone must be told about the approach as soon as possible. He supposed the local police station was the right starting point. He picked up the phone and dialled the number. A moment later he put down the receiver, frowning, and reached for his mobile.
Keying in the number merely produced a dull buzzing noise. Something somewhere was interfering with the signal.
He replaced it on his desk, his skin covered with a cold film of sweat, and glanced fearfully towards the door.
Why had they cut him off?

Neghid Fouasi looked on with a sour expression as the engineer peered inside the barrel of the Blowpipe, scrutinising it carefully to make sure it was clean and nothing was out of true or corroded. A dozen more of the anti-tank missiles, already inspected, were laid out on the bench in the centre of the room.
His hands in his pockets, Fouasi watched the man with gleaming eyes, occasionally sighing heavily and glancing down at his feet. "There is no need for us to keep you, if you have other business to attend to," the engineer said coolly. At this sarcasm Fouasi's lips twisted in a venomous scowl.
Happily ignoring his impatience, the engineer got on with the job. Eventually satisfying himself the Blowpipe worked, he placed it with the others and turned to Fouasi, nodding curtly. "They're all OK."
"Of course they are," said Fouasi. "You should know me well enough by now to appreciate that I would not deceive you as to the quality of what I sell. We both want the same things, remember."
"We don't wish to take chances," the engineer told him firmly. "Now, let us see how they perform." He spoke into a mobile phone. "We're ready for the test."
"If you are certain they are working properly, then there is no need to test them," Fouasi said.
Ignoring him again, the engineer picked up one of the Blowpipes and carried it out of the room tucked underneath his arm. Fouasi followed sullenly.
They emerged from the blockhouse into the afternoon sunshine, and went over to where a group of people had been standing waiting for them. There were several officials in suits and ties, a colonel in combat fatigues.
"You've finished checking them?" the colonel demanded.
"Yes," the engineer nodded. "They're all in perfect working order. Our friend here has served us well once again." Fouasi struggled to work out whether the compliment had been sincere, but soon gave up.
"I think you should have the honour of testing it," the engineer told the colonel. He handed the Blowpipe to the soldier, who turned to face the assortment of military vehicles clustered together a couple of hundred yards from where the party stood. The jeeps and lorries were filthy, battered and rusty. He walked towards them a short distance, then halted.
Fouasi had been eyeing the other members of the party suspiciously. His gaze shifted to travel round the panorama of low, rock-studded hills surrounding them, as if he feared some enemy would at any moment come charging over them and gun everyone down.
Returning his attention to the colonel, he saw him shoulder the Blowpipe and orientate himself so that it was pointed at one of the lorries. He pulled the trigger. With an ear-splitting screech and a flash of fire, the missile streaked from its tube trailing a plume of flame behind it, to impact with the side of the lorry. As its fuel tank was ruptured the vehicle's body burst open like the petals of a flower on a speeded-up film, an orange-yellow fireball engulfing it.
The colonel lowered the Blowpipe and smiled in satisfaction at the blazing, twisted skeleton. The group of people behind him were nodding their heads and beaming at one another. "Good British workmanship," someone commented.
"Excellent," declared another of the officials. "Excellent. If we had had these before things would have gone so much better for us." He nodded to Fouasi. "Well, it's a deal."
Fouasi sensed the change in the others' mood towards him and smiled, brightening. He reckoned he'd stay on here a while after all. And watching the lorry's destruction had cheered him up, as such things did.
"This calls for a celebration," the official declared. Fouasi's spirits rose as they headed back to the blockhouse, where several crates of food and drink had been set aside for them. On the way he chatted quite amicably with the others.
Altogether he felt happy and relaxed, thoroughly pleased with himself. He would not have been so at ease if he had been aware of the two men crouched behind a rock several hundred yards away, one of whom had been surveying the party with considerable interest through a telephoto lens.

"Who would they have been?" Caroline asked Hamid.
He hesitated, then gave a wry smile. "They are companions."
"Come again?"
"Companions for the wealthy and the powerful. Most of them are prostitutes, more or less. And drug addicts. The people who control them know that. They think that because they are already involved in such things it will not matter. Others, they are told they are to entertain and they think it means dancing and singing, nothing more.
"They are lured to countries like this by promises of wealth and comfort. They say, come and dance for the Sultan and you will earn more money than you are likely to in your home countries. And you will enjoy yourselves, too. They are made to think it is like the dashing sheikh in his palace, yes?" He sighed. "They are very stupid."
"You mean they..." Caroline was growing more and more horrified by the second. She stared at Hamid open-mouthed, hardly believing that what he was telling her could be the truth. She couldn't find the words to express herself. "Do they have any choice in the matter?"
Hamid shook his head with certainty. "No, not any more. They become trapped in it and they cannot get away. Some may want to stay, but if they didn't it would make no difference."
"Why don't they try to run off?" Caroline asked.
Hamid laughed. "I imagine if they did they would be in serious trouble. If they were caught their lives would not be worth living. And their owners control their supply of drugs."
Caroline's head was reeling. She sat down slowly.
Things began to fall chillingly into place. European girls in Saudi with a minder who wouldn't let them talk to anyone, or anyone talk to them, on pain of violence. A culture where the position of women was generally inferior to that enjoyed by their sisters in the West, and where many men had little regard for them except as sex slaves. A theatrical agency that didn't exist - not as a theatrical agency, anyway - and offered lucrative contracts overseas to young attractive women. A song and dance troupe who were so bad that they couldn't possibly be in business as what
they claimed to be...
She hadn't been taken in. But Mandy Dixon wasn't as bright. And she was already heavily into drugs and prostitution, with no family who cared about what happened to her, and no prospects in her own country. Easy prey.
She was not the first, and no doubt would not be the last, victim of what was generally called, somewhat inaccurately because it was
girls of all races who got caught up in it, as the white slave trade.

In a rough district of central London a young girl in hot pants, white shoes and a skimpy top which left her midriff bare stood on a street corner smoking a cigarette, on the lookout for business. Hearing the sound of footsteps heading in her direction, she looked round to see a tough-looking character in a leather jacket cross the road towards her.
After a brief discussion they settled on a price and she led him off. A couple of minutes later they were mounting the steep staircase of a run-down Victorian house to the bedroom, where he proceeded to mount her.
In a leafy suburb across the river a smartly-suited man came up to the door of a similar, though better kept establishment and rang the bell. The woman who opened the door smiled and gestured towards the group of girls who stood a little way behind her, inviting him to make his choice. He could have more than one of them if he wanted.
The girls went about pleasuring him with an enforced cheerfulness which served to reassure the man, while preventing him from guessing something of what they were each going through. They hardly ever left the house, because if they did, whatever the reason, they would be beaten up or their supply of the drugs they took stopped. The consequences of going to the police did not bear thinking about.
Thousands of miles away in Kuwait, a gleaming black limousine drew up outside a villa belonging to a close associate of the royal family and a dozen young women alighted, each wearing the all-enveloping black chabrah. There were two Americans, two Britons, four Swedes, three Germans, a Russian and a Czech. Once inside the girls removed their chabrahs and then every other item of clothing they wore. They danced for a while, but the performance was essentially a ritual, as well as an opportunity for the villa's owner and his friends to feast their eyes on the naked white bodies. After a few minutes it was over and the girls lay down on their backs or crouched on all fours while the men proceeded to undress, their eyes gleaming in anticipation.
Further away still, in her apartment in the red-light district of Bangkok, a young woman donned her short skirt, high-heeled red shoes and brief top, slung a handbag over her shoulder and went out to join the scores of other girls clustered on the pavements outside the brothels and massage parlours, advertising their wares for the benefit of both foreign and native tourists.
Three very different countries, culturally distinct as well as widely separated geographically. But the girls all had one thing in common, the sordid and brutalising trade in which they were engaged. And the money they earned all went to the same ultimate destination. After being laundered through a succession of outwardly legitimate and respectable businesses in various countries, it found its way into an account registered with a prominent Dubai bank. The account was in the name of Neghid Fouasi.

SEVEN
The well-preserved Victorian house was but one of many more or less identical houses in this fashionable area of St John's Wood. In the 1970s, like so many other residences in salubrious parts of the capital, it had been snapped up by a wealthy Arab family; Neghid Fouasi's family, to be precise. He had inherited it from his father on the old man's death a few years ago.
Inside, number 44 retained much of its original furnishings; the varnished oak panelling, the finely carved stair rods, the brass light fittings, the Chippendale furniture with its antimacassar coverings. Through massive French windows the sumptuously laid out living room with its ankle-deep Oriental carpet looked onto a small and rather neglected garden.
The centre of the room was occupied by a massive mahogany table around which half a dozen chairs were arranged. Most of one wall was taken up by a video cabinet tall enough to almost reach the ceiling. It held nearly a hundred videos and DVDs, about half of which were blood-and-thunder movies such as First Blood, Terminator, Dirty Harry. Of the other half, a lot had the Playboy bunny emblem on the spine; in amongst this fairly innocuous soft porn were titles like Deep Throat, and many other items which strictly speaking should not have been brought into the country.
Against the opposite wall stood a bookcase full of bound volumes of all the leading men's magazines, going back as long as they had been in publication. Nearby was a wide-screen TV with VCR underneath.
The air in the room was thick with smoke from the cigarettes of the six men who sat around the table. At its head was Fouasi: a young man in his early thirties, stockily built with a broad, squarish head, dark hair of medium length and reasonably handsome features. Except for the absence of a tie he was smartly dressed.
He was listening carefully, nodding from time to time and scribbling down notes as one of his colleagues gave a brisk summary of the organisation's current financial status.
"Annual turnover's nearly nine thousand million. We're doing all right, boys."
"Any areas we can consider moving into, or ought to stay clear of?" Fouasi asked.
"No, I don't think so."
"All right, thanks Tom." Fouasi inclined his head in approval. Then he turned to a younger man seated on his left; a man with yellow hair. "Hey Tony, I'm not very pleased with you."
"What about?" said the fair-haired man moodily.
"You know what about. The girl in the nightclub. You fucked up there, all right. What the fuck did you think you were doing?"
"Trying to hook her for us, what do you think? She was beautiful. Fucking gorgeous." He looked appealingly at one of his colleagues. "You saw her too." He knew Caroline Kent would have been a valuable acquisition. For one thing she was a natural blonde, unlike so many. And she could actually sing and dance, which was more than could be said for most of the bitches they'd got. He told the Boss so, but the Boss was unimpressed. "That's not what matters, and you know it. Shit, how long have you been in this business for?"
"You know how long, so why ask me?"
"Hey, you don't talk to me like that, Tony, OK?" The Arab's voice seemed both harsh and soft at the same time, with an unmistakeable hint of menace.
"OK," grunted the blond man, bravely struggling to hide his resentment.
"You picked the wrong kind of girl. She was smart enough to guess what we were up to. You should have known straight away she wasn't the right material. You do that too often, you'll screw up the whole London operation."
"That nightclub isn't the only joint in the city, is it?"
"No, but if the word gets around...you make a stupid mistake like that again, and you know what I'll do." If the yellow-haired man became a liability to the organisation there was only one thing which could happen to him. If they simply threw him out instead, he might from his resentment sell them out to the police.
Generally speaking, all things being equal, those who failed the Network didn't live long. Except for when the national and regional bosses needed to meet for administrative purposes, like now, it kept its organisation tightly compartmentalised. And like certain species in the natural world, it would ruthlessly shed a part of itself, and grow a new one, when such was necessary for the health of the main body.
"You should have seen her. We were missing out on something there."
"Chill out. There'll be other girls."
"So could this be bad for us?" someone asked anxiously.
"Not if we stay out of that area for the time being. And not if you keep out of sight for a while - OK?" Fouasi looked hard at the yellow-haired man. "Eventually any hassle it's caused will die down and we can move back in.
"I reckon this should be a warning to everybody. Just remember, guys, we're not as protected here as we are in Saudi. Got that?"
Five heads nodded in agreement.
Fouasi pushed back his chair and stood up. "OK boys, that's it for now. Feel free to watch whatever you like on the TV. The girls should turn up about nine."

It was some time before Caroline could speak. Eventually she collected herself and turned to Hamid, still visibly upset. "Who's running the whole thing?" she demanded.
"I do not know exactly. But there is a network, an organisation. It is thought to involve many countries. It earns for those who run it many millions of pounds. Billions, perhaps. There are people here involved in it."
"Why doesn't the government do something? I mean, it's not...it's not right, is it?"
"Personally I am inclined to agree with you, Miss Caroline. It is not right, no. But many people in the government are involved in it. Powerful people who no-one wishes to offend. So there is nothing that can be done."
"Shit," she gasped. "I still don't believe it."
"And yet they are there. We see them and every time we look at each other, smile and sigh. We know what they are but there is nothing that can be done."
"Oh, Mandy," she breathed.
The girl might be a lazy, selfish, rude, brainless little trollop but she didn't deserve this. Nobody did.
She straightened up determinedly. "I'm going to do something about it," she announced.
Hamid looked at her in surprise. "What?"
"Tomorrow I'm going to pay a visit to the embassy."
"It is not just a British problem. The girls are from many countries."
"It'll be a start. I'm going to kick up a fuss until something gets done."
"The British government knows it happens. All the foreign governments do. But they never make a complaint, because we are a friend and an ally. So there you are." He shrugged, spreading his hands with the palms upward in what Caroline had come to recognise as a typically Arab gesture of helplessness.
"If the girls themselves complained to their embassies..."
"If that achieved anything they would have done it already. Or maybe they are too frightened. Perhaps they just can't get away, with the minders watching them all the time. And as I said, there
are the drugs."
Caroline sank into her chair, her chin resting in one hand while the fingers of the other beat rhythmically on the desktop. Having started the business back in England, she now felt she had to finish it.
Mandy must have been recruited at the nightclub, she thought with horror. The man with the yellow hair.
"We may as well try," she said.
"We?" asked Hamid worriedly.
"Me, then." She sprang to her feet. "Tomorrow I'm off to the embassy. I may as well let them know what I think, even if it doesn't achieve much. See you later."

The window of room 131 on the top floor of the Maxima Hotel was open against the hot, sultry Beirut night, letting in a gentle breeze. Tanya Letsyn stood by it in deep contemplation, an unhappy frown creasing her forehead.
She heard the door open and turned reluctantly to face them as they entered.
"It's time, Tanya," said Ali. "Let's go."
She steeled herself. "I don't want to do it any more. I want to go home."
Ali stiffened, but his manner was controlled, showing he was used to this kind of thing happening occasionally.
"This isn't fair, Tanya. We're offering you a new life, a chance to make some money. To be happy." He had of course rehearsed this spiel many times before.
"I’m not happy. It's only fun if you have a choice. With you people there is no choice."
"I think you are being very stupid, Tanya."
Walid spoke now. "If you do not get your next dose of the drug you will become ill, perhaps die."
"I will take that chance."
"With us you are earning far more than you ever would in Russia."
"Money is not everything. There are other ways to earn a living; better ways. Perhaps I could go to England and train as a nurse, they want more nurses there."
"You can't let us down now, Tanya." Now the menace in his voice was unmistakeable. "Not after we have gone to so much trouble to help you; to arrange your ticket here, find you new clothes, good food, somewhere nice to stay."
"No. The price you ask for it is too great. And what will happen to me when I am too old for you; when you don't want me any more? There will be nothing. You won't care about me then."
"You signed the contract."
"Because I did not realise what it was all about. I realise it now. Let me go."
"You are forgetting, we have your passport. You cannot leave Lebanon without it."
"I will find that out for myself. I am going to the Embassy. If you let me go now I promise I will say nothing to the police."
The two of them glanced at each other, instantly reaching unspoken agreement. She would not come of her own accord. They were going to have to use force.
The two of them stood close together, blocking her way to the door. If she made a bolt for it one or both of them would be sure to grab her, and then there would be no chance.
Walid took out the needle and started moving towards her. "If you scream, Tanya, you will be punished when we get home," he warned. "Please don't make us do that."
He came closer, closer. She began to sob.
In the end it wasn't really a conscious decision. It was made half on impulse and half out of sheer despair. She turned, ran to the window, and scrambled over the ledge into empty air. Ali's fingers brushed her shoulder, but before they could close around it she was gone.
Fortunately for them she struck her head against the edge of a balcony as she fell, abruptly cutting off her scream. They heard the dull sickening thud as she hit the paved courtyard sixty feet below. Ali glanced down and saw the broken body with its limbs sticking out stiffly like those of a matchstick figure. There was a lot of blood and her neck must be broken, judging by the angle at which her head was lolling. The fan of yellow hair around it reminded him of yolk flowing from a shattered egg.
"She's dead," he said matter-of-factly. "Come on, let's go."
They didn't have much to worry about. They could always say she jumped to her death while under the influence of the drugs, without revealing how she had got hold of them. If, after that, there was still trouble, the Boss would take care of it.

When Leila Fawzieh answered the door of the apartment in central Baghdad, and saw her husband standing there, her eyes lit up with sheer joy and she threw herself into his arms, almost in tears.
"I wasn't expecting to see you," she sobbed.
"I rang you."
"That's not what I meant," Leila said.
Fawzieh contemplated her affectionately. She was becoming dumpy, pear-shaped, but her face with its large eyes and fine cheekbones was still attractive.
She took his arm and they went into the living room. "So, to what do I owe this unexpected surprise?"
"We're not needed at Quarat for the moment," he told her. He didn't say why and she wouldn't have expected him to anyway.
They both sank onto the sofa. "It's been so long since we were last together," she sighed, resting her head on his shoulder.
At that moment their two children, Rihab aged eight and Karim aged five, came running in with cries of delight. Each wrapped themselves around one of Fawzieh's legs. Karim was crying with sheer joy. Leila watched him hoist each up in turn and hug them to him.
They interrogated him about what he had been doing while away, listening in awe, as they always did, as he described Saddam to them, and everything he had seen the President say or do. Then they reluctantly allowed themselves to be dismissed, it being time for his meal.
After the Fawziehs had eaten and put the children to bed they sat talking for a while. "How long are you here for, this time?" Leila asked, dreading the answer.
"That depends," he replied. She knew he wouldn't elaborate, and sighed.
"Do you think we will be able to have a holiday this year?"
"Not until the project is finished. And no-one can say when that will be."
"And you still aren't allowed to tell me what it is?"
"I'm afraid not."
She moved to sit beside him. "Tell me one thing, Khalid; do you think it's going to make any difference?"
"I think so. It'll give us some leverage in our dealings with the West. Then we may be able to put an end to all these sanctions."
"Good," she said. "Then all the time we are spending apart may be justified." There was an edge to her voice. The apartment was everything they could have wished for, lacking nothing in modern conveniences. But without him there it always felt empty and incomplete.
"It's my job," he declared, a little crossly.
"Of course."
She got up and went into the kitchen to wash up. Fawzieh's eyes travelled round the richly furnished lounge with its television, video recorder, comfortable sofa and armchairs. They were doing all right here. That, he knew, was why he never found the contrast between the lifestyle of an Iraqi and that of the average Westerner to be a cause of resentment. Because in Iraq he and his family weren't typical.
It was little consolation to him. When the Americans and their allies come in in force, what is going to save us, he thought. There's Project Gilgamesh, of course. But what if it doesn't work out? And even if it does, the consequences were bound to be disastrous. The whole scheme was crazy, utterly crazy. But so too had been the war against Iran and the invasion of Kuwait.
If Gilgamesh turned out to be a failure, would Saddam go back to the manufacture of conventional, if that was the right word, weapons of mass destruction? If so, Fawzieh could guess what they would be used for once they were perfected. It was Saddam's way to commit belligerent acts - or threaten to - in the belief that by doing so he could get what he wanted easily, or at least exert leverage to gain important concessions, without any danger to himself. It hadn’t always worked, as the Gulf War and its outcome showed.
Could he succeed in building up a massive nuclear and chemical arsenal? If he did, what would he use it for? These days, Saddam had his finger firmly stuck in the Palestinian pie, to use a Western analogy. Fawzieh's fear, one he knew wasn't confined to himself, was that Saddam would try to scare Israel into withdrawing from Palestine or at least allowing the creation of a separate Palestinian state. If Israel was not prepared to be bullied in that fashion, or became frightened that he intended a nuclear strike against her in any case, she would blast away with her own atomic weapons, killing millions of Arabs. And after that, God alone knew what would happen. Even if things never got that far, the rest would surely find out he was amassing WMDs and stop him; their patience exhausted, they’d definitely invade this time.
They were being taken down a very dangerous path. And he couldn't see things changing, especially if Saddam was succeeded by one of his family, as seemed likely.
He wondered if it was safe to voice his thoughts to Leila. Maybe.
How can anyone say this is a country worth living in, when you can't trust your own wife?
For a long time he stared from the window at the single tree in the centre of the courtyard around which the apartments were built. One question preoccupied his mind, that into which all his thoughts and emotions had crystallised.
Could he do it?
There was a precedent. On the evening of 7th August 1995 General Hussein Kamal Hassan sent his henchmen to collect the large sums of money he had had the various state concerns under his command withdraw from his bank and place in their office safes. Once the cash was physically in his hands Hassan and his relatives flew to Jordan.
There was no question of him going alone. He couldn't leave his family here to face a bleak and uncertain future, and there was always the possibility of reprisals against them.
Would Leila come? Iraq was her home, and his, even though it had always been a hell despite the comfort of his existence compared to that of so many other of its citizens. The children of course would have little choice. They wouldn't understand what was going on.
He wondered why he was prepared to consider doing such a thing. Presumably because not everyone, even in Iraq, was the same. But here it was perhaps a little harder for it to show.

The C-160 transport aircraft carrying the UN team touched down at the Habbaniyah airbase with a bump that sent a shiver running through the entire fuselage, shaking its occupants in their rickety seats. For a few moments it lurched violently from side to side, then steadied to slow gradually to a final jarring halt. The ramp was lowered and Malikian's delegation unstrapped themselves to step out one by one into the blinding sunshine, shielding their eyes while they got used to the brilliant glare.
A group of Iraqi officials who had been gathered at the edge of the runway came over to meet them. "Welcome to Iraq!" one of them shouted above the noise of the still booming engines of the plane. You're welcome to it, thought Malikian uncharitably, looking round at the dilapidated airport buildings. A hot, dry wind seared his face.
He shook the Iraqi's hand warmly. The man was genuinely friendly. And why shouldn't he be; those who served Saddam Hussein, directly or indirectly, were only doing their job, with execution or some other Draconian punishment awaiting them if they didn't. They had no innate, congenital preference for being nasty.
The man introduced himself as being from the Iraqi Foreign Ministry. He shook the others' hands, then steered the party towards the cars which waited a few yards away. He climbed with Malikian and Brigitta into a huge black limousine which Malikian strongly suspected was war booty from Kuwait. The car was air-conditioned; they wondered whether the ordinary Iraqi people enjoyed such luxuries. The other members of the team got into a grubby white Citroen with their driver and a Foreign Ministry minder.
The party was taken to the Immigration Office, a grubby-looking building on the edge of the airport complex, where they were served sweet lemon tea while they waited for their passports to be stamped. After all the formalities had been completed, more dignitaries arrived to greet them. While some wore civilian suits others had on battle fatigues in imitation of their President, although Malikian suspected they weren’t actually army officers, and somehow even seemed to look like him (nearly every Iraqi male they were to come across had a moustache). Saddam’s caste of mind was military even if his qualifications weren't and it had pervaded the Iraqi establishment to some extent, in keeping with the tendency of Iraqi men to feel uncomfortable at being too different in any way from their leader.
From Habbaniyah they drove to Baghdad. As they passed through the suburbs their impression was of roads full of potholes, piles of rusty tincans and other rubbish, and abandoned cars with broken windscreens and crumpled fenders on which stray dogs performed their natural functions. The buildings were of mud and stone, square with plain flat roofs.
Nearing the centre of the city, they began to spot landmarks familiar from photos and TV clips; the huge parabolic arch, those two crossed swords each gripped by an enormous hand. Everywhere there were giant posters of Saddam, adorning the walls of apartment blocks and administrative buildings. Most showed him in military gear, sometimes with a Saracen warrior or a figure meant to represent the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar beside him, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon in the background. The message was clear. Saddam's image was also painted on the walls of quite a few ordinary houses, along with various slogans in Arabic.
Their first stop was the substantial villa of Tariq Aziz, Saddam's Prime Minister, which with its access ramp leading up to first-floor level looked like a multi-storey car park. Aziz greeted them with a drink in his hand, wearing a linen safari suit with a handkerchief peeping out of its breast pocket. More of the sweet Arabic tea was served, in long tall glasses.
Though personally Malikian didn't care for Aziz – he didn’t see how a Christian could feel happy serving someone like Saddam - he nonetheless like the others appreciated the hospitality. Which was why he felt guilty about one or two things. Officially this was a UN matter. But although the UN had sent spy planes over Iraq, to make it look as if it was they who had spotted the mysterious complex, it had been American satellites, he reminded himself, which had first detected its existence. The satellites were continuing to monitor the area around the installation for any suspicious activity. And the US Fifth Fleet, comprising eighteen combat ships seven of which were armed with Tomahawk cruise missiles, and including two aircraft carriers with 155 surveillance planes, fighters and bombers between them was moving slowly, almost imperceptibly, eastward through the Mediterranean to take up battle stations.

EIGHT
Caroline faced the silver-haired Consul across his desk at the embassy.
"We have been making some enquiries," he was telling her. "It seems a lot of these young women are there of their own accord."
"That can't be true, if these characters have to employ someone to stop them running away, can it?" pointed out Caroline.
"If you have any evidence that they’re being held against their will, we will of course look into it. But on the basis of hearsay alone.."
"They're a not uncommon sight here, or so I'm told."
"I'm afraid the incident you describe doesn't quite count as sufficient proof."
"I think that because they're prostitutes and drug addicts you don't feel that much sympathy for them. You feel you're justified in ignoring the problem.”
"I assure you that isn't true," said the Consul.
"Well you wouldn't say it, would you?" She eyed him in disgust. As far as you're concerned those girls have made their bed and have to lie in it.." She broke off, aware that it was an unfortunate, if appropriate, metaphor.
"Or maybe," she said, looking him uncomfortably directly in the eye, "you aren't taking any action because you don't want to offend our hosts."
"Obviously this is a very sensitive matter - "
"See what I mean."
Caroline reflected on the incident when she was struck by the Arab she had laughed at, and other things that had reached her ears. The West and the Gulf states needed each other; the West wanted the Gulf's money and its help against countries like Iraq, and vice versa. In relations between them there was a kind of balance to be struck; when things like this came up the outcome depended on how far one side or the other wanted to press the matter.
The diplomat was struggling to control his exasperation. She changed her tone, becoming more conciliatory. "Look - will you at least make a note of what I've told you, and do what you can?"
"Of course. I'm sorry I can't be of any further assistance."
They shook hands. "I'll see myself out," she said without rancour.
No luck there, she thought as she came down the steps of the building, but then she hadn't really expected any.
She called on all the other Western embassies and got the same response.
What to do now? Because she had to do something. It was intolerable. She was offended by the fact that white women were being treated in this way. It was an insult against her own race. But it was also a general repugnance at the idea of treating women like property - sexual property.
Wearily she returned to her car, and after making the usual checks for explosive devices started the engine and set off for the company's headquarters, her mind focused on the matter to as great an extent as careful driving allowed.

As he came down the steps of the large Edwardian house Professor Malcolm Speyler glanced instinctively about him for a moment. The house was set back a little from the road within a fair-sized garden screened on both all sides by high walls, and the windows were always curtained. No-one could tell from the outside what it was. But there were ways a determined busybody could have found out.
He felt no shame; rather, his anxiety to avoid being exposed was because he couldn't afford any damage to his reputation. He still hoped that one day the project to which he had devoted his life might be successful. If his reputation suffered then the project, which people already tended to regard as cranky and impractical, would suffer too.
He might not have to bother with these regular visits to the house if his wife hadn't left him because of the amount of time he was spending on the project. But it had been a worthwhile sacrifice, in Speyler's opinion.
Thirty minutes later Speyler turned into the tree-lined road, with its rows of more or less identical 1960s semi-detacheds on either side, where he lived. He spared the car parked a few yards from the entrance to his driveway, two men sitting in the front, barely a glance.
As he came up to the front door, having garaged the car, and fumbled in his pocket for the key he heard a voice call out to him. "Professor Speyler!"
He turned to see them come towards him. "If we might have a word with you?" the older man asked.
“By all means," Speyler replied. He was vaguely intrigued by the man's Middle Eastern accent, but attached no significance to it. There was no reason nowadays why a resident of the United Kingdom should object to being approached by a foreigner, or see anything sinister in it.
"We are representatives of the kingdom of Jordan," said the man, lowering his voice.
"Oh yes?"
"Professor, our government is currently involved in scientific research of a kind with which you may be able to help us. May we go inside?"
Immediately Speyler stiffened and his eyes lit up. "Yes..yes, of course." He unlocked the door and ushered them in. A few moments later the two men were seating themselves on the sofa, Speyler opposite them in an armchair. "What kind of research are we talking about?" he asked excitedly.
"Two years ago you published a paper on the use of light as a means of propulsion. Your colleagues, however, were not quite so enthusiastic and your application for a research grant was refused. You have had no luck elsewhere. It is clear you found the situation extremely disappointing."
"You're well-informed," Speyler commented, his eyebrows lifting.
"We had to carry out some research of our own in order to find someone such as yourself. Anyhow, I believe we have found some-thing to which your work may have an application."
"What is it?"
"We would like you to examine this." The Arab took out the metal casket, placed it on the table in front of Speyler and opened it.
"If you were to examine this material in a laboratory, you would find that it has some very interesting properties. It is harder than any other substance on Earth. It took many months before we were able to detach even this one sliver of it. Try to cut it and you will see what I mean."
Like Eckige before him Speyler did so. His reaction, likewise, was one of astonishment, though anyone’s would have been. "Like diamond…but harder than it," he breathed.
"Now turn the fire on up to full."
Speyler complied. "Hold the fragment close to it and keep it there for a minute or two."
When the time was up he withdrew it, swinging round slowly. "That's impossible."
"Evidently it is not."
“But how…”
“We don’t know how, not exactly. But it comes from something which was ploughed up by one of our farmers several years ago. Let me tell you what we think it is."
“And…and this isn’t just some kind of hoax?” Speyler spluttered a little later.
"What you have just seen proves we are telling the truth. And then there are these." The Arab showed him the photographs. After a while Speyler put them down. "They could be faked."
"We would be happy to let you see the object for yourself. As a physicist I am sure you would find it a most interesting experience."
"It's crazy," he gasped.
But true; it had to be. Although the photos could indeed be fakes, there was the evidence of the “diamond” and its strange properties. "It...it's incredible. And - and what exactly do you want me to do with it?"
"To find out how its powers can be fully made use of."
"For what purpose? I presume it's something peaceful. But then why didn't you make the approach through the usual diplomatic - "
The other Iraqi smiled. "I think it is time we told you the truth, Dr Speyler. We are not Jordanians, we are Iraqis."
Speyler gave a start of surprise. He stared at his two visitors dazedly, trying to absorb the revelation. He realised the younger Iraqi was speaking.
"Your life's work so far has been inconclusive, because nobody has been willing to provide the money to put your theories into practice. And you are not getting any younger, if you will pardon me drawing your attention to the fact. In this country your achievements are being ignored, and in the long run you will be completely forgotten. You may be rediscovered at some future date, recognised as the genius you are, but the likelihood is that by then you will be long dead and unable to enjoy your new-found fame. We offer you the chance to be appreciated, to see your life's work through to its proper conclusion. When the news of our discovery is announced to the world, you will be famous. Don't you want that?"
Speyler found himself answering automatically. "Of course."
The Iraqi studied him thoughtfully for a moment or two, then went on speaking. "Power is our concern, Professor Speyler. We need it so that we can reshape the world in a new and better form. The world regards us as a pariah state but in truth we are no different from anyone else, with our own needs, aspirations and priorities. We desire to be able to make an impression on the world, make our own contribution to human progress. Let me tell you more."
Speyler seemed a little uncertain. Then, slowly, his lips formed a smile. "We will of course offer you a reasonable - a more than reasonable – salary,” the Iraqi continued. “Our president will be extremely grateful to you for your assistance, and may wish to reward you in other ways too."
It was taking a big leap, Speyler thought. But if it came off...
"We do not have long, Professor Speyler," the Iraqi said gently, sensing the residual doubt that remained in him. "We require a decision here and now."
Speyler sat there thinking, aware of the clock ticking on the sideboard, while the Iraqis began to shift impatiently.
And came to his decision. "Yes," he said savagely. "Yes, I'll do it. I'll do it."
He smiled warmly at them. "Would you like a drink?"

"Did you have any luck?"
"What do you think?" Caroline slumped into her chair with a sigh. "Hamid, I've got to do something."
"It wouldn't be wise to get on the wrong side of these people," he warned her.
She wasn't impressed. "They can do what they like."
"Besides," Hamid persevered, "how are you going to get them away from their minders?"
"What we need," she said thoughtfully, "is some kind of distraction."
A thought suddenly occurred to her. "Is it only here that it goes on? You said it was many countries."
"It may be based here, I don't know. But they travel all around this part of the world; to the other Gulf states, to Egypt, Syria, Lebanon, North Africa..."
Caroline decided it wouldn't be a good idea to try anything in Saudi itself. It just wasn't the right place for what she had in mind. Probably she’d only end up getting arrested.
One particular word penetrated through to her consciousness. "Lebanon," she murmured thoughtfully. "Did you say Lebanon?"
*
The school Caroline had attended had been fairly international in character, with pupils from many parts of the world and ethnic groups. As a result she had been able to establish an extensive network of friends and acquaintances in various countries. It was early in the afternoon and an attractive Lebanese girl called Rifaat Chakiris was sitting in a parked car in the Rue des Phoeniciens in Beirut, watching the crowds of people on the pavements as they attempted gently to ease their way past each other.
The weather was warm and sunny, as always in May on the coastal strip. You could not yet feel the burning sun through the fabric of the car; that would come in July and August when the pollution and the dust rising up from the streets would aggravate the stifling heat.
Fifty yards away was one of the establishments known as "Supernightclubs" which had been springing up lately around the capital. Unlike ordinary nightclubs, which were what they professed to be, these were cabarets where the performers were almost entirely female. The great majority of these "dancers" or "escorts" as they were also known came from Eastern Europe and in particular the former Soviet Union.
A few doors away there was a "bar". The word did not mean quite what it would in the West, although alcohol was certainly on sale there. Through the part-glass frontage the red lights could clearly be seen, and you might also glimpse moving about bikini-clad figures who, if you were male and happened to have caught their eye, would stop and smile at you, inviting you to enter with a wiggling of their fingers.
On the pavement outside the Supernightclub about two dozen young Western women were gathering. Two men, one huge and apelike in appearance (Rifaat decided to think of him as the Hulk, after the Marvel comics character), the other smaller though solidly built, planted themselves a short distance on either side of the group, like sheepdogs penning them in. They watched their charges carefully, from time to time glancing down the street in both directions, on the lookout for trouble.
Rifaat got out her mobile phone and dialled a number in Riyadh. "Yes, they're here. That makes it every day for the last four days. It seems like each set of girls is there for a week or so and then the line-up's changed."
"And you're happy to go ahead with this?" Caroline asked.
"Yes. I have some friends who will help."
"Right," said Caroline. "I'm coming over to join you."
They would have to move fast; soon it might be time for the girls to move on, to Egypt or one of the Gulf states.
"OK. When should I expect you?"
"Let's see, today's Thursday; if I can get my current workload finished tomorrow, I'll be with you about lunchtime on Saturday."
"That'll be great. Look, Caroline, I can't stay here any longer or they'll notice me and start wondering. I'm going home now. Call me from the airport."
"Fine. Be seeing you."
Rifaat started the car, pulled out and drove away, just as the Hulk's head began to turn suspiciously in her direction.

Loud music and raucous laughter filled the air. Neghid Fouasi and his companions were lolling about on sofas or on the floor in various stages of undress. Each man had a girl with him and was cuddling her, fondling her breasts and fiddling with her clothing. The room was littered with empty bottles, discarded wrappers and other debris. Half-eaten food was being trodden into the carpet and spilt drink soaked into it. From time to time a naked or semi-naked girl would run in giggling and screaming from one of the other rooms, pursued by another of Fouasi's friends, clearly in a state of arousal.
Other girls stood against the wall with their arms folded, patiently waiting their turn. From time to time, bored with his current companion or realising she was blind drunk and completely out of it, a man would beckon one of them over. Every few minutes a new girl entered and join the queue.
Fouasi himself was locked in a sixty-nine with a former Page Three model. So far he hadn't had much to drink at this stage. He wanted to preserve his sexual energy, but a combination of the booze and the pills could be fatal to the heart.
A waiter hovered in the background, politely ignoring the occasional proposition from one of the girls. Someone shouted out for more food and drink and he disappeared, to run back in a few minutes later carrying a tray laden with assorted refreshments. He swerved to avoid a nasty accident as one of the men staggered towards him drunkenly, not realising he was there. The things I have to do to earn a living, he sighed inwardly.
He noted that most of the girls seemed to be blonde.
In the street outside the club a car was parked on the other side of the road, directly opposite the entrance. The man in the driver's seat had wound down the window and was smoking a cigarette. From time to time he glanced at his watch.
There was no knowing at what time Fouasi would leave the club; it depended on how drunk or sexually preoccupied he was. The only sure way of catching him was by waiting patiently. Fortunately at this early hour of the morning there weren't many people about in the street. The occasional hooker would stop by the car and bend down to tap on the window, to draw away immediately when he shook his head to indicate he wasn't looking for business. That was about all.
Nonetheless there were risks in doing it this way. But his people had studied their target's movements carefully over a long period and concluded it was the best and possibly the only chance there was of getting at him.
A prince of a Gulf royal family got up and began chasing one of the girls around the room. Another couple disappeared into the small side room which had been set aside for those wishing to pursue their hobby in private.
Fouasi withdrew his tongue from the mouth of the girl beside him. Having felt his ardour begin to flag, he reached for the little plastic capsule in his trouser pocket.

The area where the club was situated had a kind of seedy glamour and Glynis Ruthermere, also known as Jeanette Packard, liked it. She found the lowlifes of different social backgrounds who frequented it more interesting than most of the people she might meet elsewhere, and they gave her wonderful material for her novels. Some of them were nasty, some nice, some merely Bohemian. Like many writers Glynis Ruthermere slept during the day and worked at night. From time to time, seeking to relieve the stuffiness of her little flat, she would open the window and breathe in the cool, fresh air. So far tonight she had seen the car parked opposite the club, an indistinct figure sitting at the wheel, each time she had done so.
Eventually, Glynis began to get suspicious. Nearly four hours he'd been there, by her reckoning. He must be waiting for someone; but he wouldn't be waiting for that long, surely?
She started to feel uneasy. Something criminal must be in the making. She would check again in twenty minutes' time; and if the man was still there, she decided, she would contact the police.

The man in the car stiffened, feeling a surge of excitement, as the door of the club opened and several figures emerged onto the pavement. Then he sat back with a little sigh of disappointment; Fouasi was not among them.
One more hour, the man resolved. He reckoned that was the most he could give it before someone noticed.

Fouasi's gaze travelled along the line of girls by the wall. He called one of them over, whispering into her ear. "In the ass, yeah? That OK? You do that sort of thing?"
The girl hesitated then drew back, her face wrinkling in disgust. Fouasi scowled at her. Then her expression changed as she reconsidered the proposition. "Sixty pounds," she snapped.
"Fifty."
"Sixty," she repeated, her voice like cut glass.
"OK, sixty," muttered Fouasi sullenly. He fumbled in his pocket for the wallet, and handed her a sheaf of notes. The two of them disappeared into another side room where they noted with no particular interest the man being fellated in the corner. They clambered onto the bed and got down to work.

Once more Glynis Ruthermere parted her curtains and peered out. No, he hadn't moved. She picked up the phone and dialled the local police station.
There the desk sergeant logged the call, taking down her name and address. "We'll send a car over," he told her, not sounding particularly interested.
With a sigh he turned to a colleague. "We'd better check, just in case there's anything in it. Anyone available?"
The man studied a chart on the wall. "Not at the moment. Hoskins and Pascoe are still investigating that robbery in Harper Square. Once that's cleared up they may as well take a look." The call from Luke Street couldn't be a priority. They had little time to waste on what only might be suspicious.
The desk sergeant leaned back in his chair with a sigh, staring gloomily at the wastepaper basket and wishing he could chuck the McPherson Report in with all the other rubbish.

Fouasi and the girl disengaged from one another, parting without a word of thanks on the former’s part.
Fouasi emerged from the side room, making a half-hearted attempt to adjust his clothing. By now couples were openly copulating on the floor and on the sofa. He saw the girl he had just been with go over to one of his friends, posing seductively before him. Nearby another was pulling the trousers off a German business tycoon. She tossed them aside, then smeared his middle parts with cream from a tube. Taking him in her hand she proceeded to masturbate him.
Fouasi pondered his next move. He decided he wanted to come over smooth, taut young flesh, and looked round to see who was free. At that moment a new girl came into the room: a black one. That'd make a nice change. He liked a piece of black ass from time to time.
He went over to meet her, and the negotiations began.

The man in the car was getting nervous. Several times he'd seen the curtains of one of the flats on the other side of the road pulled back and someone peer out, looking down at the vehicle. He decided that if it happened again he'd make a move.
Could he risk going away and then coming back later? What if Fouasi left the club in the meantime?
Again he reminded himself that they might not get another chance.

"Oh yes...fantastic...you're fantastic...oh YES!!!!!"
Fouasi was pleased by the compliment, even though he knew it was totally insincere. Excited by it, he hammered away frenziedly for another couple of minutes until the juice burst from him, then rolled off the girl to lie flat on the floor, eyes closed blissfully.
She was about the tenth he had had so far; he'd lost count of the exact number. He was beginning to get a little tired, and wondered if he should pack it in now. But a residue of lust remained in him that had to be satiated.
One more, he decided. Again he reached for the capsule of pills.

It had been nearly an hour since Glynis had made the call, and there was still no sign of the police. She wasn't particularly surprised. It wasn't the first time she had rung them and been kept hanging on like this.
Finally deciding she couldn't be bothered, she turned from the window with a sigh and went back to her word processor.

The jeweller had been woken in the middle of the night by suspicious noises downstairs. He had reached for the phone he kept beside his bed for use in such contingencies and dialled 999. The intruders took fright and bolted on hearing the car arrive; the police were just in time to glimpse two figures running from the building and across the road to disappear into the mouth of an alleyway. They gave chase, but lost them. Returning to the shop, one of them interviewed the jeweller while his colleague looked over the scene of the crime taking notes. Having recorded all the details of the incident they left, promising the shopkeeper they would continue to look into the matter and giving him some advice on how he might render his premises more secure in future.
"Right," said one officer to the other as they climbed back into their car, "we may as well check out that report from Luke Street."

The eyes of the man in the car remained fixed on the big double doors with the illuminated sign above them. A passer-by gave the vehicle and its occupant a suspicious glance.
That's it, the man decided. He was about to start the engine when Fouasi and a couple of the girls staggered out onto the pavement, their clothing still in some disarray. The three of them had their arms linked. They swayed and lurched dangerously, whooping and shrieking.
He pressed the button and the window wound down enough to allow him to extrude the barrel of the rifle. In an instant he had Fouasi in his sights, the red spot hovering over the centre of his target's forehead.
He squeezed the trigger.
In the same instant that the gun fired Fouasi swung round drunkenly, taking the two girls with him. The bullet missed the girl on his right by a millimetre, singeing her hair but otherwise doing no damage. Fouasi staggered and fell, bringing all three of them crashing down in a heap. The girls lay on the pavement laughing, not realising what had happened, while Fouasi sat up and shook his head, struggling to rise. The man in the car waited.
Then he heard the police sirens. He started the engine and pulled out from the kerb, to shoot off down the road as fast as safety allowed.
A minute later the police car came along. The occupants saw the two girls sprawled on the pavement, and Fouasi clambering shakily to his feet, and went to see if they could help.
"Are you all right, Sir?" Fouasi blinked at them vaguely. He put a hand to his head, and it came away red and glistening where the bullet had torn a bloody path through his hair.
They took him to hospital, where a doctor confirmed the injury as having been caused by a bullet. Fortunately it had merely grazed his scalp, briefly stunning him. The bullet was later recovered by Forensics, but it was of a fairly common type fired from a fairly common make of gun and there was no firm evidence to suggest who the hitman or those employing him had been. Glynis Ruthermere had only seen a car which might have been a Lada with a vaguely glimpsed figure inside it, and no sense could be got out of Fouasi's delectable companions. The police would issue appeals for information, asking anyone who might have been up and about at the time to contact them if they had seen anything suspicious, but without any result.
The hitman, of course, was by then well out of the country.

Since Caroline had first visited Lebanon not long after the end of the civil war, to stay with Rifaat, it had become one of her favourite places; a delightfully absurd and hotch-potch kind of country, where massive billboards advertising Coca Cola and cigarettes stood cheek-by-jowl with giant size cut-outs of the late Ayatollah Khomeini. She loved Beirut, loved the bustling city magnificently sited on its promontory thrusting out into the Mediterranean, especially when the mountains behind the town were covered with summer flowers and the traffic haze had cleared so that you could see them. There was only one real irritant: she had several times, since she had arrived in the country earlier in the
day, been accosted by taxi-drivers and other men who thought she was an Eastern European "artiste" and were obviously deeply disappointed when it turned out she wasn't. But compared to some places in the Middle East serious harrassment was rare, perhaps because of the levelling effect of that fascinating cosmopolitan-ism.
There was plenty on supply in the way of entertainment. Apart from the possibilities represented by the countless bars and discos, most of which were open twenty-four hours a day, the beach season had just begun. But she had come here for business, not pleasure.
Rifaat and Caroline were sitting in a hired car just across the street from the Supernightclub, Rifaat from time to time phoning her friends to see how things were progressing.
Searching for something to do while she waited, Caroline's eye lighted on the guide book she had bought at the airport, and she began flicking through it. Entirely at random she stopped at a page and started to read.

"At Yammouneh are the remains of a temple devoted to Astarte, goddess of love and sexual pleasure. It was here, in a lake that has now been drained, that she is said to have changed into a fish in order to escape the unwanted attentions of one of her lovers, whose number is said to have included Adonis...
The cult of Astarte began in early Phoenician times and continued for over three thousand years, into the period of the Roman occupation. During that time the goddess took various shapes, becoming confused with the Egyptian Isis who was thought to have come to Jbeil, near Byblos, to mourn the death of her lover Osiris, and with the Greek Aphrodite.
Astarte was one of the pagan deities whose worship the prophets of ancient Israel sought to ban in accordance with the law of Moses."

The section was accompanied by a picture of the goddess. She had long hair, ample breasts and an hourglass figure, and was nude except for something that looked remarkably like a modern bikini bottom.
Caroline put down the guidebook and resumed her vigil, casting her eyes over the street and the people on the pavement.
She nudged Rifaat and pointed.
In among the crowds of lightly-dressed tourists, several women in traditional Islamic garb stood out jarringly. They were dressed from head to foot in black, every inch of their flesh hidden except for a pillar-box slit through which the eyes peered.
As they neared the group gathered outside the club they broke away from the rest of the crowd and walked swiftly towards the Hulk, who stood keeping an ever-watchful eye on his charges - who now wore shorts and T-shirts instead of all-concealing black robes. At the same time three more of them appeared and converged on the other minder.
Realising they were making straight for him, in swift purposeful strides, the Hulk stiffened, his eyes glittering. His expression was aggressively quizzical, designed to offput. It didn't deter the Muslim women, who quickly surrounded him to form a barrier between him and the girls. He saw that their eyes were flashing with rage.
They began to scream piercingly at the top of their voices, and gesticulate violently. Evidently they knew what was going on and disapproved of it as anti-Islamic decadence.
The Hulk shouted back, making his posture and expression as threatening as possible. "What are you talking about? This is a free country, we have a right to stand here if we want. Go away and stop interfering."
Meanwhile the other minder was being similarly harangued. Alarmed and frightened, the girls drew together instinctively, glancing at one another.
Further down the street, Rifaat's father's massive American saloon drew up alongside the pavement with a screech of brakes. The door was flung open and Caroline jumped out, running over to the girls. "Come on, quickly!" she hissed. "Get in the car!"
Rather to her consternation the girls, Mandy included, either did nothing or just shifted indecisively, glancing every few seconds at each other or at the minders. Some looked anxious and unhappy.
"Come on!" Caroline repeated. "You want to get away, don't you? You must know what they're doing to you."
It was the best chance she would get to save them, maybe the only one, and she wasn't going to let it slip away.
It occurred to her that not all of them would understand English. But they must have guessed what she was trying to do.
She glanced up the street. A huge crowd of onlookers had gathered on the pavement, spilling over onto the road and causing something of a traffic hold-up. Drivers were honking their horns angrily or trying to ease past the throng. The watchers kept well back from the argument, while observing it with keen interest. Caroline dreaded that at any moment a policeman would appear on the scene.
She decided to concentrate on Mandy. Dashing forward, she grabbed the girl by the wrist and tried to drag her towards the car.
Immediately Mandy began to protest, shouting and swearing and trying to prise Caroline's fingers from her wrist. "I'm onto a good thing and you're trying to spoil it!" she screamed, sounding like a spoilt six-year old.
A couple of heads turned in their direction, expressions concerned and disapproving. Oh sod, thought Caroline. The last thing she wanted was for them to think this was an abduction and decide to have a go.
Meanwhile Rifaat stayed at the wheel of the car. She didn't want anyone to know she was involved in this. Criminal vendettas could be long and bloody in Lebanon, and if the people running the white slave business had connections here it was possible she or her family might meet a nasty end.
There was a very good chance Mandy might manage to break free before she could be bundled into the car. Caroline changed direction, dragging her into the mouth of a little alleyway between two buildings. A few yards down it she thrust Mandy against holding her there, and locked eyes with her. "Mandy, you little fool! Are you crazy? We're trying to help you! Do you think I don't know what's going on here?"
"It's all right," Mandy insisted. "I like it. They're nice people - "
"Nice people? What planet are you on, Mandy? After the way that gorilla spoke to me yesterday? Nice people don't behave like that."
"Let me go!" Mandy screamed. "He'll get angry!"
"You're coming with me whether you like it or not," Caroline told her, using the tone she adopted with her young cousin whenever he misbehaved. She shifted her grip, seizing Mandy's arm again.
"I don't want to go back," Mandy yelled. She dug in her heels. Caroline let go of her arm and took her by the shoulders, trying literally to shake some sense into her.
Rifaat had started sounding the hooter. She was waiting with increasing anxiety, continually glancing down the road in both directions and giving another blast on the horn every few seconds. The other girls were still milling about aimlessly on the pavement. Then one of them seemed suddenly to make up her mind and broke away from the others, running down the street towards the car. As she passed it Rifaat flung open the door and leaned half out, beckoning to her urgently. The girl, a willowy ash-blonde with a pale complexion, stared at her for a moment and then scrambled into the passenger seat.
Rifaat's eyes were still fixed on the scene ahead. She sounded the horn again.
The ash-blonde was glancing uncertainly out of the window at the crowd on the pavement.
She made a move to open the door.
"You can't go back now," said Rifaat. "Because you tried to escape they’ll punish you severely. It'll be better if you go with us." The girl obviously understood what she was saying, for she saw the sense in it and relaxed a little, her mind made up.
Then Rifaat saw a police car come into view at the end of the street. Deciding she couldn't wait any longer, she started the car, pulled out and turned round. Treading hard on the accelerator, she shot off into the distance.
One of the Islamic women had noticed the police car and nudged the shoulder of one of her colleagues, who nudged all the others. Abandoning the argument with the minders, they each hurried away to vanish into the crowds.
The Hulk turned back to his charges, re-establishing his control over them. He realised two girls were missing, and his face twisted with rage. "Where are they?" he roared.
In the alleyway Caroline was still trying desperately to reason with Mandy. "It's not right, Mandy, you must know that! You're degrading yourself by letting them do this to you. For God's sake let me help you!"
Mandy twisted violently, and with a desperate wrench broke free and ran back down the passage. Caroline shot after her and managed to grab her again.
Then the Hulk appeared in the mouth of the alleyway, towering over them. "Oh, er - hello," said Caroline nervously.
He lunged forward, his huge hands reaching out to grasp her. Abandoning any thought of rescuing Mandy, she let go of her and ran off down the alley, away from the street end. Forgetting her for the moment, the Hulk turned his attention to Mandy. She cringed in terror as he bore down on her. "I wasn't trying to run away, I swear! She wanted me to go but I wouldn't."
He stared at her, trying to decide if she was telling the truth. "Who is she?" he demanded.
"She knows me. She used to be my boss, back in England." The Hulk deliberated for a moment or two, then he jerked his thumb abruptly in the direction of the street, and Mandy followed him back towards it.
Caroline had found herself in a veritable maze of alleyways. More by luck than anything else she managed to find her way back to the street. Emerging onto the pavement, she ran for where she knew the car to be.
Only to stagger to a halt, paling despite the blazing Middle Eastern sun, when she realised it wasn't there.
"Oh, corks," she wailed.
By now the Hulk had returned with Mandy to where the girls were, and resumed his watch for trouble. He happened to glance down the street and saw Caroline as she stood in momentary helplessness.
He hesitated, torn between the need to find out more about a possible danger to the organisation and his duty to protect his charges, then barked an order to his fellow minder. Leaving his colleague to guard the girls, he ran down the street towards Caroline.
She looked round at the sound of his approach and started in horror. Immediately she ran.
She would have liked to lose herself in the crowd, but by now it had dispersed somewhat. The police had moved on too.
She didn't dare look behind but she had the nasty suspicion the Hulk was gaining on her.
To her anger, none of the people standing about the street seemed at all disposed to go to her aid. Perhaps they knew what it was all about, didn't want to get involved for fear of their own safety. They just stood and stared at what was happening, blocking her way. She changed direction and dashed across the road. In her frantic haste she was entirely oblivious of the car coming down it towards her. The driver saw her and with a shout of alarm stamped hard on the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a screeching halt.
Its bonnet hit Caroline with enough force to knock her sideways, causing her to lose her footing. She fell sprawling, striking her head. Briefly she lay dazed. Then, sheer panic bringing her back to her senses, she scrambled to her feet and went on running.
Her flight was taking her away from the centre of the city, deeper and deeper into the heart of the poorer quarter, into a labyrinth of dingy little backstreets and alleys.
She realised she was starting to tire.
The mouth of another alleyway, a narrow passage between two blocks of houses, loomed up on her right, and she darted into it. Not far behind her, the Hulk paused to bark a series of orders into a mobile phone.
Caroline's one hope was to lose her pursuer in the maze of alleyways. Then he would abandon the chase and she could make her way gradually back to Rifaat. Sheer panic kept her going, despite the pain in her legs and in her heaving lungs.
She passed an old woman sitting on a doorstep gazing at the world about her with rheumy eyes; a beggar child with an arm and an eye missing.
The passage seemed to end in a solid stone wall. Then she saw that it turned to the left.
Then it branched off to the right. Still she could hear the pounding footsteps close behind. She took another turning and saw a man appear ahead of her. Briefly she felt a thrill of hope, then realised he was just another of the heavies; the Hulk must have called him to help catch her while the other minder remained in charge of the girls. She let out a sobbing wail of despair.
She staggered to a halt, spun round and ran back the way she had come. To see the Hulk thundering down the passage towards her.
There was the mouth of another passageway in the wall roughly halfway between them. If she moved fast enough...she ran towards it, towards the Hulk. She reached it, dashed into it, and a few moments later he followed.
She got no more than a few yards before he grabbed her by the forearm and jerked her to a halt.
Twisting his arm, he slammed her against the wall with a force that drove the remaining breath from her lungs. The other heavy to a halt beside them, and the two thugs waited while she recovered her wind, the Hulk all the time keeping a firm grip on her arm. Caroline knew she was too exhausted to struggle. She waited for her energy to come back. "You filthy bastards," she gasped. "I know what your game is. I'm going to stop you if I can, do you hear me?"
"You are not going to do anything," said the Hulk sinisterly. She saw him reach into his pocket and take out something slim, silvery and gleaming. A needle.
"Hold her," he ordered. The other heavy's hand shifted, to lock tightly around Caroline's wrist.
Somehow, sheer fright and desperation gave her the strength to break free. Immediately the thug caught her again, grabbing her round the waist and lifting her clean off her feet. Her legs kicked and thrashed frantically in mid-air.
She slumped back against him, the burst of energy expended. The thugs held her tight between them while the Hulk force up her sleeve. She felt the cold, sharp point of the needle prick her flesh and started in pain.
Everything around her began to swim and blur, ceasing to be quite real. A great darkness was descending upon her brain, swallowing up all sensation. Savagely she struggled against the effects of the drug, and for a moment seemed to be resisting it, but she could feel the darkness tugging remorselessly at her mind and knew that any second she was going to lose the battle.
She became aware of Mandy and a couple of the girls standing a short distance away, looking on vacantly, not entirely comprehending what they saw. She felt herself go limp, her vision clouding, and rallied herself in a last frantic burst of energy.
"Don't just stand there!" she screamed at them, on a rising note of hysteria. "Help me! For God's sake, help me!!!!!!!"

NINE
The diplomat turned towards Rifaat with a smile. "You did the right thing in bringing her here, Miss Chakiris. But she's not British, she's Swedish."
"It doesn't matter," said Rifaat. "We've saved her from those people. That's what counts."
"We'll give their embassy a call. They'll arrange for her to be sent home and given the right kind of treatment for her addiction. They may also want to talk to you about the incident."
"That's OK. But in the meantime I must go and look for my friend. I'm a bit worried about her."
In another room Inge Bjornsson, in her halting English, was tearfully relating her story while a female diplomat held her hand. It wasn't her Embassy, but she just felt the desperate need to talk to someone about her experiences. At first it had been fun. But after a while she began to feel wearied and degraded. And when she had asked to be allowed to go home, they refused, telling her she should have known what she was letting herself in for, even though they had said nothing at the outset about it being permanent. She had pretended to accept this, but as a precaution they had increased her dose of the drug, which had the effect of making it more addictive.
The diplomats listened in horror as she described all that had been done to her, relief at the release of tension overcoming any inhibitions she might otherwise have had about it. What she had to tell them was almost unbelievable.
"But how did you get involved in it? Were you kidnapped?"
"No," said Inge. "Not exactly."
"How? They'll need to know if they're to stop this kind of thing happening in the future."
She hesitated, then bowed her head. "All right," she sighed. “I'm a prostitute. But not again," she said emphatically. "Never again. I have had enough of it." She burst into tears again.
"Who were these people?" asked the British woman, when Inge had recovered something of her composure.
"I can't really remember much about it, because I was drugged most of the time. Sometimes I just didn't know where I was, because of the drug and because they moved us around so much." She could describe the Hulk and one or two others who stuck out, but that was all. "I think they were wealthy people, powerful people. No-one will want them brought to trial because of the scandal it would cause." That was why she had no need to worry about the threats that would be made to her if she agreed to testify.
"I need somewhere to lie down," she told the diplomats. She felt completely shattered in mind and body.
They led her to a rarely used office where she curled up in a protective ball on the floor, thinking that as soon as she got home she'd go straight to her parents and tell them everything was forgiven. And steeling herself for the long battle she knew lay ahead against the poison that had been pumped into her body.

Rifaat drove around the network of little streets for some time, getting increasingly worried, but saw no sign of Caroline and found no clue as to what had happened to her. In an extremely distressed and agitated state, she drove home and told her father everything. He wasn't happy, to put it mildly, but agreed there was no option but to inform the police. He supposed their name could be kept out of it, if he spoke to the right people.

Caroline moaned and shifted as her consciousness began to return. She was slumped in an armchair in a sparsely furnished, dingy little room, with two men standing before her blocking her route to the door. One of them was the Hulk.
Satisfying himself she was now fully conscious, he spoke. "Who are you?"
A combination of fear and anger made Caroline aggressive. "That's none of your business. Why, who are you?"
The Hulk marched over to her and seized her by the wrist, jerking her to her feet. His grip was crushingly tight and she screamed in pain.
"Answer," he snapped.
"My name's Caroline Kent," she gasped.
He relaxed his hold a little. "How much do you know?"
"About what?" she replied, deliberately stalling.
Still grasping her by the wrist, he took a match from a box on the table and struck it. He held it close to the soft flesh on the underside of her forearm.
Caroline knew that in a second or two the flame would start to hurt her. "All right, all right!" she screamed, gabbling in her haste. He withdrew the match.
She fell back into the chair. "I know what you're up to with all those girls. Anyone with any brains can work it out. And there are plenty of rumours going around, you know."
"Who are you working for?"
"I'm not working for anyone." In this case, the statement was entirely true.
"Why did you interfere?"
"One of those girls was a - well, not really a friend, but she used to work for me. I knew she'd got mixed up with you and I was trying to get her out of it.
"Now why don't you let me go? I've failed, haven't I? From what I hear it isn't easy to touch you people, you've got too many friends in high places. I'm no danger to you. So let's just stop this messing about, shall we?"
She had to keep calm, and hope that some opportunity of escape would present itself. Meanwhile, if it looked like they intended to harm her in any way she’d give them a run for their money.
The Hulk looked down at her indecisively. He glanced at his colleague, who simply shrugged. He had no idea what to do with Caroline either.
Without a word to his prisoner, he took the hypodermic from his pocket and pricked her on the wrist. She twitched and went limp, her eyes once again misting over as the drug took effect.

The UN team got out of their cars and for a moment stood gazing about. Though it wasn't quite desert the ground was rocky and barren-looking with a few stunted trees and a reddish tint to the soil. It had a bleak, austere beauty about it and to the diplomats it looked not unlike the surface of Mars.
So this is it, Malikian thought, turning his attention to the complex. Now that it was finished it did indeed look little different from many large non-residential buildings in the West; the same arrangement of flat-roofed cubes fashioned out of glass, metal and concrete.
A party of senior staff was waiting to greet them at the entrance to the buildings. It was led by Dr Sagida Tambouzi, the director of the establishment, a stout, greying woman in her forties whom he understood had been educated at Oxford and Yale. She greeted them cordially enough.
The idea was to take them on a brief tour of the complex, so that everyone could get an overall view of what went on there, after which a more intensive inspection could be carried out. They put on their white coats and Tambouzi led them down a corridor to the laboratories, leaving her colleagues to resume their work.
"So what exactly are you aiming to do here?" Malikian asked on the way.
"Our aim is that in agriculture Iraq should be entirely self-sufficient." To counter the effects of UN sanctions, no doubt. "We are trying to develop a range of food crops that can not only flourish in desert or near-desert conditions, but at the same time give a high enough yield to provide all the sustenance we need."
"Through bioengineering?"
Tambouzi smiled. "I can assure you, Dr Malikian, that the techniques used in this kind of work are very different from those employed in biological warfare."
"Of course. But, ah, why did the centre have to be built here in particular? I understand you had to resettle the local population."
"The soil here has qualities which make it an ideal subject for our research. I can let you have a sample to take back for analysis."
No doubt the sample would confirm what Tambouzi was saying. But then, if these people were expert agronomists they could very easily have arranged that.
The laboratories were large, airy and well-lit, the temperature even. In the first flora of all kinds was being cultivated; on the workbenches sat trays full of soil, rows of plants in plastic tubs, racks of test tubes, water-filled beakers, microscopes, and tools for measuring and calibrating. In the background stood incubators, humidifiers, autoclaves for sterilising instruments, and a host of other equipment that the project required. White-coated scientists and technicians were working at the benches or going about the room on various tasks.
In the other rooms the products of the first were being tested to see how they coped in different environments. Plants grew from containers filled with water in a special hydroponic chamber. The climate in these laboratories was moist, humid, a little stifling, with droplets of water clinging to the walls. It was not unlike a swimming baths.
One room was brilliantly lit by solar panels in the ceiling. In another, a vast echoing chamber as high as the roof of the complex, Tambouzi crossed to a panel on the wall studded with buttons and pressed one; they heard the whine of electric motors, and glanced up to see a raised section of ceiling slide to one side, leaving a square of blue sky. They could now see that the hatch in the roof which had so bothered Malikian and his CIA buddies was an enormous skylight.
"For some of our species direct exposure to sunlight is best," she explained. "Though not all the time."
They wandered around the room for a few minutes, then moved on.
They saw plants being nurtured on drips like hospital patients, subjected to loud music and flashing lights to see if it stimulated their growth. Then a room where seeds were stored in conditions designed to make them hardier. The subdued lighting there gave the place the look and feel of an aquarium.
They were shown a storage bay stacked with canisters of chemicals, many of which bore danger signs. "Obviously we use nitrates in manufacturing fertilisers," Tambouzi explained. "Some of those substances can be highly flammable. We take the utmost precautions to ensure there are no accidents."
After a moment Malikian nodded, satisfied.
There was nothing they could see that looked immediately suspicious. Just the things you would expect to find in a scientific research establishment. "It all seems in order so far," Malikian told Tambouzi.
It must be bona fide, he thought; they wouldn't go to all these lengths just to provide a front for a WMD project. Or perhaps they would. Or the place served a dual purpose. And there was always the possibility the scientists were unwilling dupes of the government. But if there was something funny going on here they'd have to know about it, surely?
Never before had he so much wished that walls could speak; assuming that Saddam Hussein had not some means of hiding things from them.

The air inside the warehouse was thick with the smell of oil, grease and sawdust. From behind a pair of folding metal doors which partitioned a section of the building's vast interior off from the rest could be heard the sound of heavy machinery in operation. Visible through a side door, a lorry stood just outside, its engine running. The lettering on the side in Arabic and English read "FOUASI INDUSTRIES."
"Why are we doing it this way?" asked one of the man standing over a crate looking down at Caroline Kent, who lay bound and gagged inside it. For a brief moment she struggled feebly, then she was still. The drug would ensure there was no chance of her making a noise and attracting attention. Her filmy eyes blinked up at them, barely seeing.
"There are special considerations involved." The Hulk explained the circumstances surrounding Caroline's capture. "We can't have her going around in public, even if she's stuffed full of drugs with one of us watching over her all the time. There are some parts of the world where we can get away with it. But here...just trust the Boss. He knows it'll be OK, or we wouldn't be doing it. Now give me a hand, will you?"
The lid of the crate stood leaning against it. They lifted it into place, and Caroline's world was plunged into darkness. Between them they battened down the lid, then picked up the crate, which was cleverly constructed with air holes to allow its occupant to breathe, and carefully carried it out to the waiting lorry, loading it into the back. The rear doors were slammed shut and locked.
Smiling, the Hulk dialled his mobile phone. "Joe here. Expect a long tall avocado." He used the slang term current within the organisation for a tall blonde. "A classy little number. Something tells me we're going to have a lot of fun with her."

TEN
Steve Jankowitz often thought nightshifts were a very good example of a mixed blessing. They could be boring as hell at times, and in the cold emptiness of the otherwise deserted factory you often found yourself wishing you were tucked up in bed with a warm and loving wife. On the plus side you got a bit of peace and quiet. Without the constant pressures of work in an office you had time to think, make plans for holidays and the like, and summon up happy thoughts of people alive and dead. It was like in that old Commodores song; you were never alone on the nightshift. And, of course, there was the money.
Having walked round the premises for the fifth time this shift, and satisfied himself nothing was amiss, Steve seated himself at his desk in the foyer, opened a paperback and began to read.
Outside the factory the night was still and silent, about the only sound to reach Steve's ears coming from the occasional vehicle on the main road a mile or so away.
The silence was suddenly disturbed by the sound of a car drawing up near the entrance to the building. He got up to see who it was, wondering uneasily what they could possibly want at this hour.
A face came into view through the glass sliding door. Steve relaxed as he recognised Dr Yateman. At first he didn't register the look on the scientist's face nor see the two black-clad men in balaclava helmets who stood behind him brandishing shotguns. By the time he did Yateman had inserted his card in the slot in the wall and the door had hissed open.
In a flash the two gunmen were inside the building, shoving the terrified Yateman before them. Two more balaclava'd figures joined them. Steve jumped to his feet in alarm, but before he could reach the panic button one of the men had swung round to cover him with his weapon.
"On the floor!" the thug screamed. Immediately Steve lay down flat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other gunmen bundle Yateman towards the stairs.
The thug went over to him and knelt down. He supposed the man was going to tie him up. Then he felt cold metal press against his sweating forehead.
The gun being fitted with a silencer, Dr Yateman didn't hear Steve Jankowitz being shot, and thus guess what his own fate would be. If he had he would have given trouble. They had planned it all perfectly. "The exact details of the operation we will leave up to you,” the people who had hired them to do the job had said. “We know you are professionals, that you will carry it out quickly and efficiently. All I will say is that there must be nothing to lead the police to you, nothing that could possibly provide them with any clues." The gang leader had been free to interpret that as he would. "Because if they are led to you they may also be led to us and we cannot afford to have that happen."
Upstairs, Yateman led them to his laboratory and over to the racks where the equipment was stored.
"That's it?" asked the leader. "There's nothing else?"
"No, that's all."
"So long, then," the leader said, and raised his shotgun.
A little later, minus Yateman, they left the building and returned to the car to fetch the cans of petrol.

In a neat, sparsely furnished little room thousands of miles away two men and a woman stood looking down at Caroline Kent's unconscious body, which lay sprawled on a bed with its head on one side, eyes closed.
Neghid Fouasi contemplated Caroline with some regret. On the market a girl like this would fetch him hundreds, maybe thousands, of pounds. But with the news of her disappearance winging its way around the world no dealer would touch her. Nor could she take part in the regular excursions he organised around the region; if she were recognised the consequences could be disastrous. They could disguise her but there was always the chance someone would see through it. Nor did he want to hide that blonde beauty beneath a brunette wig and makeup. You had to give the customers what they wanted, and in this part of the world fair-skinned women were very much in demand.
And besides, he wanted a share of her himself.
He turned to the man beside him; his second-in-command, known usually as Hakim. "How long ago did she have the second injection?"
"A couple of hours. She should be coming round any minute."
"Good. I'll leave you and Blondie to look after her. See she gets her induction." He left the room.
Caroline felt herself drift slowly back to consciousness. She sat up and rubbed her head, which felt as if it was being split in two by a red hot knife.
She was conscious of two hazy figures standing before her. She tried to speak, but the words came out as a slurred mumble. So she just sat and stared down at the floor, her head in her hand.
Gradually the pain receded and her vision cleared. She saw a heavily-built Arab man and a large, plump woman in her fifties. The woman was obviously a European. Her skin was brownish-pink and remarkably smooth and unblemished for her age. It contrasted sharply and hideously with her hair, which was a shade of blonde too bright and shiny to be natural. The effect was that of an oversized china doll, and it was reinforced by her face with its harsh exaggerated prettiness. There was a strange vague look in the woman's eyes, which seemed to be perpetually blinking.
The blonde spoke in a London accent. "Feeling better, dear?" she smiled.
"Yes, thanks," said Caroline automatically. For a moment she was reassured by the homely words, and thought she was at the embassy or somewhere like that, safe and sound.
She glanced round the room. Apart from the bed the only items of furniture were a chair and a little table with a vase of flowers on it. Everything - the carpet, the bedclothes, the brightly-patterned wallpaper - was spotlessly clean, and so strong and cloying was the smell of antiseptic that she almost retched. The attractiveness of the room matched that of the blonde woman; too harsh, too artificial.
"It doesn't usually hurt like that," the woman said.
"What doesn't?"
"The drug. That was just a special something we gave you to keep you out of mischief on the way here."
Caroline stared at her.
She struggled to rise, but although she could feel her strength returning she was still too weak to move much. “W-what...what are you talking about?"
"Haven't you guessed, dear?"
Caroline waited for her energies to fully return. She lifted herself to her feet, stiffly.
The woman moved closer to her, and ran a hand through her soft golden hair. "Nice hair, aintcher? Thought it was me who was Blondie around here."
"Now," said the man, "do you realise where you are?"
"No," said Caroline.
"Well, you soon will. It's going to be your home for the time being. That's if we decide you're what we want." His voice changed, taking on a harsh commanding tone. "Strip."
"What - " suddenly the realisation came to her. She swayed on her feet, gave a gasp of pure horror and clapped both hands to her head. "No! No!" she shouted. "You can't do this! You can't! It's not right, do you understand? I won't let you! I won't!"
"Shout as much as you like," the man said. "It won't do you any good." He smiled wolfishly. "You are our property now, understand? We can do whatever we like with you."
"Never!"
"I’m afraid so. Now take your clothes off; I won't ask you again." "You're bloody joking!" Caroline was still more angry than anything else. She marched towards the door, but the man stepped in front of her and pushed her back. She reeled from the force of the shove. She dodged round him and made for the door again, but before she could get there he had grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her round. His arm came up and the palm of his hand slashed across her face. It was like a blow from a cudgel and a bee sting, a particularly sharp and painful one, at the same time. She gasped and staggered back, covering her face.
The peroxide took her by the arm. "Listen, dear," she said, "it's not him you've got to worry about, it's me."
Very slowly she tightened her grip. A stab of pain shot through Caroline; despite her age the woman was surprisingly, and frighteningly, strong. It seemed the bones would crack. "Let go!" she shrieked. "You're hurting me!"
She kicked out savagely, beating at Blondie with her free arm. In a sudden rapid movement the woman twisted her round, pulling the arm behind her back with a savage wrench. She pulled Caroline against her, wrapping her arms around the girl and squeezing her in a crushing bear hug that drove the breath from her lungs. She struggled, terrified she would suffocate, but Blondie’s grip was unbreakable. One arm was pinned to her side while the other was trapped painfully between her body and Blondie's.
Just when she thought she would pass out Blondie released her. She staggered away to collapse half across the bed, gasping. Looking down, she saw five white indentations in the flesh of her wrist where Blondie's fingers had pressed deep into it.
"You're a nice girl, I really don't want to hurt you. So don't give us any more trouble, please lovey." Blondie smiled coaxingly. "Come on, let's see what you look like in the altogether."
The man spoke again. "If you want a chance of ever getting out here alive you'll do as we say."
You'll never let me leave here alive, Caroline thought.
She turned away from them and slowly, without a word, proceeded to undress, deliberately taking her time over it. "Faster!" the man barked.
She undid the buttons on her blouse and slipped it off, unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor. Her knickers and bra followed. "Turn round," Hakim ordered. She obeyed, eyes smouldering with fury.
“A natural blonde," said the peroxide, a hint of jealousy in her voice. "Well done."
She examined Caroline carefully, running her eyes, and her hands, over the girl’s body rather as if she was a prize specimen of cattle at market. Caroline flinched and scowled repeatedly as Blondie poked and prodded her all over, tweaked her breasts and felt her buttocks.
"Now now, dear, that's not very nice. We want you to enjoy your time with us." Blondie stepped back with a sigh. "Oh dear, I don't think you're going to be happy here somehow."
Caroline's face was red with embarrassment and rage. If looks could kill both of them would have dropped down dead in a fraction of a second. Hakim suddenly felt uneasy at what they were taking on.
Blondie finished her inspection. "That's good; nice firm tits and bum. Yes, she'll do. You're in good shape dear, do you exercise?"
"I do aerobics," said Caroline hollowly.
"I bet you do it naked," giggled Blondie. “I mean, some people do.”
“Why would I do it naked?”
“Well, I don’t know. Do you, darling? Do you exercise in the nuddy?”
Caroline struggled to suppress her embarrassment.
"When someone asks you a question, it's very rude not to answer." The threat in Blondie's voice was clear. "Manners don't cost anything, you know dear."
Caroline sighed. "Sometimes."
"There you are, didn't hurt did it?" said Blondie. "Aerobics, eh? So that's why."
She smiled lewdly. "Naked. You're a right little goer, aren't you?"
"I don't do it when people can see, obviously. I'm not sure what you mean anyway."
Blondie ignored her. "You can put your clothes back on now if you like, dear," she said.
"I certainly will." Caroline proceeded to dress.
"Now," said the man when she had finished, "listen carefully. These are the rules. While you are staying with us you will not be allowed to leave the building whatever the reason, except when you are taken out for exercise. There are meals three times a day. When you are not required to service the guards or one of the customers, you will remain here in your room."
"Bit boring," said Caroline. She was brazening it out like this in order to give herself time to think. Nor did she want them to think her spirit was crushed.
The man’s next words pretty near had that effect. "You will be under the drug much of the time, so it will not bother you. You will be constantly guarded. Each floor, the grounds, and the perimeter of the palace, are regularly patrolled. If you cause any trouble, or attempt to escape, you will be very severely punished. You will wish you had never been born. Whatever the customers ask you to do, you will do. Now, do you understand your position?"
Caroline swallowed. "Yes," she answered, fighting to keep her voice steady. "I think you've made everything quite clear."
"Later we'll go and meet some of the girls," Blondie announced. "You'll like them, they're a friendly bunch. But first let me show you to your room."
"People will come looking for me, you know," she said.
"They will not find you," said Hakim.
Caroline sighed. "So...you're saying there's no way, no way whatever, that I can get out of this place."
"Clever, isn't she?" sniggered Blondie.
"I take it that means "yes". Well, in that case I'm not going to give you any trouble. Do all sorts of ghastly things to me, if you must. Someone'll sort you out one day." Her tone of voice was bitter and anguished, but with a certain grim resignation.
She shrugged. "I suppose I've no choice but to make the most of it."
The two of them stared at her, fazed for a moment. Then Hakim smiled slowly.
"It's obvious what you're trying to do. You're trying to make us think we can take our eyes off you, so that we'll make a mistake and you can escape. Very clever, but not good enough."
Caroline shrugged.
"Something I should have told you at the start is that there is nowhere to escape to. Look out of the window."
Caroline drew back the curtain and peered out. She saw a broad expanse of tarmac stretching away to a section of high brick wall with three strands of wire, supported at intervals by metal stanchions, running along its top. A guard with a rifle slung over his shoulder was walking along beside it. Beyond it, there was nothing but yellow sand all the way to the horizon.
"We're right out in the desert," she gasped.
"Indeed. You will not last long in this heat, especially since you are not used to it. And it is some forty miles to the nearest town or village."
"There is no escape," he repeated. "No hope. Understand that."
"This way, dear," said Blondie, moving to the door and opening it.
"N-n-no," gasped Caroline. "I don't believe this. It can't be happening. It can't be real."
"Think you're dreaming? Maybe a good pinch will help you wake up." Blondie reached for her arm.
Caroline snatched it away. "N-no thanks."
The blood was rushing along her veins so fast it made her dizzy. She had never, in her life, performed any sexual act to which she had not consented. You never thought such things could happen to you. What would it be like? Would she really be able to stand it?
She felt cold and sick all over. She swayed, almost fainting, then in a sudden violent convulsion vomited the contents of her stomach down her front and onto the floor.
Blondie tutted. "Dear, dear. Now I'll have to get all that cleaned up, won't I?
She took Caroline by the arm. "Come along, then."
The three of them led her down the corridor. She saw that there were a dozen or so doors on both sides, each with a number on it and, usually, a card bearing the name of the girl who occupied it in English and Arabic. They came to one that had no card. Caroline wondered what had happened to the girl who had occupied it last.
"In here. This will be your home from now on." Hakim unlocked the door, opened it, and gestured curtly for her to enter.
The room showed signs of having been recently cleaned, made ready for her. It was a smaller version of the one she had woken up in, and identical in layout except that there was no window. Here the smell of cleaning fluid was so strong it made her gag. She guessed a lot of it was needed to get rid of the smells and stains produced by frequent sex. There was a bed, a chair where the customer could hang his clothes, but nothing else. The lack of furnishings meant there was nothing with which she could kill herself in despair or use in an escape attempt. On the bed lay a simple, knee-length white robe. It was clear she was meant to put it on.
Again she was ordered to undress. She picked up the robe and underneath it found a brief bikini suit. There was a tag attached to it which the bore the number 21, the same as her room.
While she dressed in her harem costume, Blondie gathered up her old clothes. "What are you going to do with those?" she asked.
"Burn them, of course," said Hakim. "After all, you will not be needing them again."
Caroline tried to take back her blouse. "That was a present from my mother," she said. "Please, let me keep it."
Blondie glanced at Hakim, who after a moment nodded curtly. She tossed the blouse onto the bed.
The two of them left without a word, Hakim slamming the door shut and relocking it. Caroline heard their footsteps recede down the corridor.
Immediately she glanced round the room in every direction, her brain working feverishly. There was nothing to hand which she could use to pick the lock. And no windows to climb out of.
Caroline went over the problem for a very long time, but there was nothing she could see that might help to solve it. For perhaps the first time in her life, she was utterly defeated.
So she just sat down on the bed, buried her face in her hands and cried.

From his hotel room in Paris, where he had decided to stop over briefly on his way back to Saudi, Neghid Fouasi was conducting an agitated telephone conversation with the Hulk. "What did you think you were doing?" he shouted.
"I thought we should find out who she was and what she was up to."
Fouasi calmed down a little. "Tell me again what happened."
The Hulk told him of the encounter at Riyadh airport. "She knew one of the girls, started talking to her. Caused a bit of trouble when I told her to go. Then when we were waiting to go into the club in Beirut she tried to get her away from us." He described the incident in full.
"Had she gone to her Embassy, or to the police?"
"Not that I know of. If she did, obviously the meeting came to nothing.
"There wasn't time to question her on the spot. We had to get away because the whole thing was causing too much hassle. I didn't want people asking questions.
"I don't think she can hurt us. She said it herself, we're too protected for that."
"She could still make trouble," Fouasi said. "We really ought to kill her."
"I'll see to it right away, boss."
"No, hold it." Fouasi wasn't entirely sure he wanted to take that course of action. For one thing, even if Caroline's body were never found it wouldn't be much less risky than keeping her prisoner, since the fact of her disappearance would itself have got the police on the case.
He thought over the problem carefully. To his annoyance the Hulk spoke, interrupting his deliberations. "People will come looking for her."
"Because you took it upon yourself to kidnap her." But Foausi's anger was already beginning to abate somewhat.
"What if she had continued to make trouble?" the Hulk argued. "This way she's taken care of. I thought we could stop her poking her nose in and make her useful to us at the same time. She wouldn't be the first one we'd hard-picked."
"Hmmm...yeah, you're right." Fouasi was now warming to the idea. "It'd serve her right for sticking her nose into our business, trying to mess things up."
"And it would be a waste of a good body to trash her," said the Hulk. "But what about the authorities?"
"They won't find her," said Fouasi. "She is going to disappear and never be seen again. If we keep her here at the palace there's no chance anyone will know."
"And the girl who escaped? That is going to make things difficult for us.”
"We'll handle it somehow. We may have to close down the Beirut end, at least while they're all out there looking for her, but I'll see if I can avoid that. Even if our friends in the area can't do anything, we should be able to move back in when all the fuss has died down."

After a period of time which Caroline found impossible to gauge, she heard footsteps coming along the corridor towards her room. She listened in dread at the thought of what they might presage. Their sound filled the air, filled her head, until there was nothing else in her world but it.
They came up to the door and stopped.
The key turned in the lock, and the door swung open. She did not recognise Neghid Fouasi, but he was to become all too familiar to her over the next few months.
He made a rapid, curt gesture of his arm, which could have meant anything. "What?" she asked.
"I'm telling you to fucking undress." She realised she had been left to assume that if a man came to her room it was to have sex with her, unless the contrary were specifically indicated.
She knew there wasn't any point in resisting. Fouasi watched her impatiently while she disrobed, the bulge at his crotch swelling still further as more and more of her was revealed.
One thought in particular was going through her mind. "Are…are you just going to…”
Fouasi guessed what she meant. "We tested you when you came in. You're clean." He gave her a shove. "I haven't got anything, you fucking bitch."
Bracing herself, she lay down on the bed and spread her legs, fighting to control her violent trembling.
He ripped off his own clothes, clambered onto the bed and lay down on top of her.
God, he was an animal! Thrusting in and out in a violent, frenzied manner, as if it was the last day of his life. Gasping and panting, making no attempt to stifle the bestial sounds tearing themselves from him. And all the time his hands were running over her and the smell of his breath filled her nostrils as he pressed his mouth tightly over hers like a suction cup.
Overcome with revulsion, she screamed and writhed and twisted, pounding and clawing at him as she struggled to throw him off. But he was far too strong for her to dislodge. Such was his mad lust that he ignored the assault, apparently feeling no pain as her nails dug deep into his flesh.
A couple of minutes later he climaxed copiously into her. She gave a long, shuddering scream of distress as she felt his semen flood her belly.
For a moment he lay still on top of her, spent. Then he rolled off and levered himself off the bed. She curled into a tight ball and rolled to one side, sobbing.
He took a small plastic capsule from the pocket of his trousers where they hung over the back of the chair. He peeled off the lid and tilted the capsule until a small white pill fell out into the palm of his hand. He popped it into his mouth, and sat down for a minute or so, waiting for it to take effect.
Then he pointed down at the floor. "Kneel," he ordered. He wanted to take her like a dog; an animal.
She threw her head back and spat at him.
His hand lashed out and dealt her a stinging blow across the buttocks. The harsh voice rasped out again. "Do it!" He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled, forcing her head down. She fell to her knees and he positioned himself behind her.
This isn't even prostitution, she thought. It was rape, for God's sake. Rape.
Afterwards Fouasi left her alone for a while. Not bothering to dress, she stretched out on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, her mind numb and empty. The second assault had been even more violent than the first, probably because of the pills, and the burning pain between her legs filled her consciousness to the exclusion of all other thoughts, but her emotional and physical exhaustion prevented her giving any expression to it. This, she thought, must be what hell is like.
The following morning a bang on the door and a shout from the guard outside signalled that it was breakfast time. Mechanically she washed, cleaned her teeth and put on her robe. The guard had unlocked the door and she opened it to find him standing there waiting for her. He led her downstairs to a communal dining area.
The room was large, well-lit and spacious. Its roof was supported at intervals by marble pillars. There was one big table running along the centre of the room, and the other girls were already taking their places there. Blondie stood in the background keeping a close eye on everything, her hands clasped before her, looking like some proprietorial matron. The guards hovered by the walls with their arms folded across their chests, their eyes never leaving the girls.
She studied her fellow captives closely. To her astonishment there were nearly a hundred of them. A few were black, but most were white, and northern European at that. All wore the same flowing ankle-length robe as she. Likewise, the vast majority of them were fair-skinned and fair-haired. As they started to chat she heard an assortment of different accents; French, German, Spanish, Italian, Russian, American, Irish, Australian, Dutch, Scandinavian, and several different varieties of English. Just about every language in the Western world was represented. Most of the women, however, were Eastern Europeans: Russians, plus a few Poles, Hungarians, Czechs and Slovaks.
The girls could be divided into two groups. One, the largest, were distinguished by their dull, vacant expressions, with eyes devoid of all life and lustre, and their slow, mechanical movements, the stiff robot-like manner in which they dissected their food and lifted it to their mouths. The drugs, Caroline supposed. They barely spoke to one another. From the way they talked and moved about the rest of the girls seemed normal. She noted that the two groups sat at opposite ends of the table, quite separate from each other.
The "normal" category included all the girls she'd seen at the airport and in Beirut, plus a few more - were they new additions, she wondered?
Mandy was immediately recognisable now, without her chabrah. Caroline glanced at her, and their eyes met. Then Mandy hurriedly averted her gaze.
Caroline found a place among the "normals" and sat down. On the plate in front of her were a few slices of bread with jam and some dates. She proceeded to eat.
The seats on either side of her were empty. In any case she didn't feel like making conversation with her fellow captives, because she was still traumatised from the shock of what had happened the previous night. Most of them probably didn't speak English anyway. She felt someone sit down beside her, and glanced round. She saw a striking-looking red-haired girl with blue-green eyes.
The redhead spoke in English. "You're the new girl, aren't you? You OK?"
Caroline nodded vaguely.
"You can't fool me. You're really screwed up, aren't you? We're all like that when we're first brought in." The woman’s voice was flat and listless, yet there was a certain equanimity in it, suggesting she had accepted that what couldn’t be cured must be endured, however awful.
"I'm not OK," said Caroline. "I'm not OK at all. How could I be?"
The redhead placed a friendly hand on her arm. "I'm Angela Bates. Angie."
"Caroline Kent."
A second girl joined them. "Caroline this is Gerda, Gerda Dittmar."
Caroline acknowledged the newcomer, a German judging from her name, with a weak smile and a brief nod.
"How did they get you?" Angie asked.
Caroline told her. "That's what you get for trying to help people. And you?"
Angie told her story. "I was a relief worker in an East African country; I was captured by rebels and sold to a local warlord." Her face twisted with pain at the memory. "We woke up one morning to find our camp surrounded by soldiers. They wouldn't tell us who they were; they just ordered us to do what we were told or we might regret it. They rounded us all up, then separated the women they thought were good-looking from the others. The guy in charge walked up and down inspecting us carefully. He stopped in front of me and looked me up and down a bit; then suddenly he grabbed me by my hair and yanked me out of line.
“I and an Italian girl were made to stand together, closely guarded. They shot the other aid workers before our very eyes. Then they forced us at gunpoint into a truck and a couple of the soldiers climbed in with us. The truck started off. For a long time I was too upset to think about anything except the way my friends had been gunned down in front of me. I just hugged Andrea and tried to comfort her. I asked the guards where we were being taken but they didn't reply, other than to grin at us in a way I didn't care for.
"The truck drove to the warlord’s base where we were made to strip and put on bikinis, while our clothes were taken away and burned. I realised what we'd got into and my heart sank lower than it ever had in my life.
“It was an auction, a slave auction. We were tied to posts while the men came and drooled over us. There were lots of other girls there; some were white but not all. The punters were mostly Arabs, because it’s easier to keep a girl hidden away here than it is in the West. But there were some white men – there’s lots come here to get their kicks, I can tell you - and some Chinese or Japanese.
“The bidding started. He was there; the guy who runs this place. Quite beefy, mean-looking, always smoking."
"I think I've met him," Caroline said hollowly.
"I don't know who he is but he's everywhere. He's had his way with me a few times. You can tell he's the one in charge, they're all pretty scared of him. Anyway, he bought me. He runs the whole show, ultimately, least that was the impression I got, the way all the punters behaved towards him. And he likes to have his own cut.
"Andrea was still unsold when I was taken away. I never saw her again."
Caroline closed her eyes in horror.
She looked enquiringly at the German girl. "I was on holiday in Morocco," Gerda began. "I met this guy, a local; he seemed friendly enough. He invited me to his house to meet some of his friends. He gave me a drink, and the last thing I remember was sipping it and feeling funny." She shrugged. "And now..."
"I can't believe it," Caroline gasped. "I still can't believe it. In the modern age..." Yet if you thought about it it might be possible, should certain factors chance to coincide.
"Most of the girls here are prostitutes though, like your friend. That's how he gets his filthy little hands on them."
"But he thought he could risk keeping you here? If anyone found out…"
"I think he's got more confident, starting to take girls who aren't prossies. Or perhaps it’s because many of them have already been through several different owners. The trail's gone cold, you see. By now all the fuss has died down, and everyone's forgotten about us, except for our families and there's not much they can do on their own. Or maybe he just needs the money, I don't know."
She looked Caroline straight in the eye. "Face it, love, it's really happening and you've got no choice but to be strong and try to bear it. There's no hope for us, you see. He's got the whole thing well sewn up." She cast her eyes over the drugged girls at the other end of the table. And as for those poor little sods…they tried to escape, you see, so he upped the dose.”
"How do you stand it?"
"By telling myself I can't be sure I won't escape one day. Because I can't, can I?"
Caroline studied Angie and Gerda with interest. Now that they weren't under the influence of the drug - clearly their last dose had worn off and it was not yet time for their next - they were able to think and talk coherently. It seemed odd that the three of them were having a normal, rational conversation in circumstances like sitting surrounded by vicious heavies in a mock Oriental palace where they had to make provide their bodies for use every day.
"Why don't they keep us under the drug all the time?" she asked. "If we tried to escape…"
"I've told you, there's no point. Anyway it's too dangerous; eventually the stuff kills you, if you get too much of it. Probably kill you anyway, though it might take longer. And…well, they enjoy the business more if there’s some…reaction.
"We're kept drugged half the time because they know we're not reliable. After all, we were taken against our will. We'd get out of it if we could.
"Some of the girls like it, they think it's all a lot of fun - stupid bimboes. They're "trusties", they can be relied upon not to try and make a break for it, although the minders still keep an eye on them; they're not taking any chances. And they aren't much bothered about us being kept here."
"We've got to get out," said Caroline fiercely.
"The guards would stop us before we got more than a few yards. And we're right out in the desert here, as you'll have noticed. Nothing else for hundreds of miles. Before a day was out you'd either starve or roast to death. I don't even know where we are exactly, apart from slap bang in the middle of the sticks."
Now that Caroline had recovered, more or less, from the shock of her initial violation she was starting to think clearly. They must be somewhere in the Gulf region, she thought. And although it was important no-one saw what was going on here, they couldn't be that far from civilisation; their abductors just wanted them to think they were. It was risky driving across large tracts of open desert, at risk from the bandits she knew sometimes robbed and killed travellers. Plus the thought of being stranded in that wilderness without transport, should your plane or helicopter crash, was daunting.
She shared her conclusions with Gerda and Angie. Neither of them seemed moved. "The place is too well-guarded, and he is protected by powerful people in the government," Gerda said. "So we are as helpless as if we were thousands of miles from the city."
"Just accept it, dear, you're stuck here for the rest of your life," said Angie. "However long that's going to be. They won't let you go because you know too much. Best not to even think about it."
They ate the rest of the meal in silence, but Caroline gave both girls a brief smile afterwards to show she appreciated their kindness.
Two of the guards came over to them and stood behind Angie and Gerda. Angie explained that it was time for their regular injection of the drug. The girls were led off, and Caroline was left alone. Blondie went up to the table next to hers, where Mandy was sitting, and clapped her hands. "Now, girls, it's time for our little outing." She might have been a benign schoolmistress from out of Malory Towers or something like that.
As one the girls got up and followed Blondie from the room. As they filed past Caroline made a move towards Mandy, calling out her name. But one of the guards gave a firm shake of his head, and a warning scowl, and she stepped back. A little later, she heard the sound of a plane taking off. There must be a private airfield here. She wondered vaguely where they were off to. If only she could go with them; she guessed there'd be a better chance of escaping than there was here. But the slavers must know that.
The image of the slave auction Angie had described filled her mind. What would happen, she thought, if a girl was on a junket somewhere, say in one of the North African countries, and one of the customers took a fancy to her and bought her? In that event, it was quite likely she would never be seen again, any hope of rescuing her evaporating into nothingness.
But she was destined to stay here, while back home her family must have received the news of her disappearance and be going through agony. The thought brought her to the verge of tears.
Then it was time for her to take the drug, and for the next few hours merciful oblivion overwhelmed her.

In a former quarry on the outskirts of Leatherhead Edward Kent stood in hard hat, donkey jacket and boots watching a shopping centre slowly take place before him, his men swarming over it like ants.
Hearing the tramp of boots, Edward looked round to see MacGuyver, who handled all clerical duties at the site. "Call for you. It's the police."
"Oh. What do they want?"
"They didn't say. They just want to talk to you."
Pursing his lips, Edward strode through the mud towards a nearby Portakabin, feeling vaguely uneasy. He wondered what this could possibly be about. When he'd first set up in the construction business, nearly thirty years ago, he had on one or two occasions been guilty of what might be termed sharp practice, mainly because everyone else seemed to be at that time. He had later regretted these misdemeanours, and they had not been repeated since. He doubted if they were the reason for the authorities taking an interest in him now. It was more likely to be…
"I'll take it in my office," he told MacGuyver as they entered the Portakabin. He disappeared into the section of the cabin that had been reserved for his own personal use, closing the door firmly.
He snatched up the receiver. "Kent," he grunted.
"Mr Kent? DI Nilssen of Dorking police here. I'm afraid I have some rather disturbing news for you."
"Ah," murmured Edward. "It's not something to do with my daughter, is it?"
"I'm afraid it is, Sir. We've just been informed by the Foreign Office that she seems to have disappeared."
"Oh no," he groaned. "Not again."
"If you'd like to fetch your wife and come over we'll explain everything."
"I'm on my way," he grunted, and slammed the phone down.
With a brief explanation to MacGuyver, he hurried from the cabin and over to his car, his mind racing, trying to tell himself not to panic.
If the truth be told, disappearing was something of a habit with Caroline. Always she'd materialised safe and well in the end. But there was always the nagging thought at the back of their minds that the next time would be the time she wouldn't.
Thirty minutes later he pulled into the driveway of the house. As he got out of the car he saw his wife peering anxiously from the window, wondering what his unexpected return home might mean.
She opened the door to him. "Edward?"
"You'd better sit down, love," he said.
"Why? What's happened?" she asked, immediately tensing.
The front door closed behind them. "That bloody daughter of ours has gone and vanished again."
Margaret stared at him. "No," she gasped, her eyes wide and full of horror.
"'Fraid so."
"Oh no! What did they say?”
“Just that she’d…disappeared. I don’t think they felt happy talking about it over the phone.”
She started to tremble, and Edward clasped her hand tightly. "Just calm down, Maggie. You never know, she may be perfectly all right. In the meantime, let's go over to the cop shop and get all the details."
"Not again," wailed Margaret. "How...how can she be so inconsiderate?"
"It may not be her fault. Let's just hear what the police have to say."
"Something always seems to happen when she goes off somewhere. What could it be this time?"
"I don't know," Edward said grimly, "but I have my theories."
"Well?"
"It's not something I like to say."
"I think I'd rather you came out with it straight."
He hesitated. "Have you ever heard of the white slave trade?"
"Oh don't be horrible!"
"It's happened," grunted Edward. "There are plenty of dodgy characters in that part of the world who'd love to get their hands on a nice white girl." He scowled. "You're going to start worrying now, aren't you?"
"Well of course I am!"
He headed for the door. "Come on, let's go. The sooner we get the gen on this the better for your peace of mind."
A couple of minutes later they were on their way. As they drove towards the outskirts of the town Edward could feel the tension in his wife like something solid. She sat up rigidly in her seat, staring fixedly at the road ahead, counting every tree that flashed by.
*
Wary of their reaction to what he was about to say, Inspector Jack Houghton tried to size up the middle-aged couple before him, though he knew the family from their close involvement in the affairs of the locality; Edward’s company was a keen sponsor of community improvement projects and other worthwhile causes. Kent must be now well into his fifties, but his hair was still surprisingly blond, having aged better than his craggy, careworn face. There was self-possession and firmness of purpose in that face, in those bright blue eyes; it suggested a man who couldn't easily be outsmarted and who you would be unwise to get on the wrong side of. So too did the stocky, muscular body. No doubt he didn't leap around like he used to, but all the same Houghton wouldn't have picked a fight with him.
In Margaret Kent's raven-black hair the streaks of grey stood out much more prominently. She was still a very handsome woman, and although she was starting to look her age he had the impression it was due more to the debilitating effects of stress than the passage of time. Looking at that high-cheekboned face, you knew where you had seen it before. If you gave her her husband's hair and eyes, you'd get a good idea of what Caroline would look like in twenty or thirty years' time. Assuming she lived that long.
"I'm afraid it looks like she's been abducted," said Houghton. Hamid and Rifaat had already told the company their stories.
"Who by?" Edward asked. "Terrorists?" That would be bad enough. "Whatever it is, I think we'd like to know the truth." His soft voice held a trace of a Yorkshire accent, a relic of the time when his company had been based in that part of the country, and with it went a touch of steel as hard and unyielding as any product of a Sheffield knife factory.
Houghton glanced at Margaret. He saw Edward nod at him out of the corner of his eye. "It would seem we're looking at what's called the white slave trade. Putting two and two together, it's obvious what happened. We've spoken to her Lebanese friend. She tried to rescue the Dixon girl and ended up getting snatched herself."
"She was trying to help someone," said Margaret, feeling a surge of pride. "That's our daughter." She collected her thoughts. "But surely there'd be too many risks for them in kidnapping a foreign woman?"
"Obviously someone thought they could get away with it," Edward muttered.
"I don't like to cause you any distress," Houghton said, "but I'm afraid the Swedish girl's story confirms it."
"So where would Caroline be now?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. I imagine she's been secreted away somewhere where she's not likely to be found."
"Obviously," said Edward.
"It's awful," wailed Margaret. “How could anyone do that to someone?"
"Who could be running the operation?" Edward asked.
"That is something we can only speculate on at present."
"The Swedish girl must know, surely."
"She couldn't tell the police much. They kept her drugged most of the time, you see."
Edward was silent, dark and terrible thoughts gnawing at him. As Margaret had pointed out keeping a white woman, a representative of a foreign oil company, prisoner would be fraught with danger for the slavers. As long as she remained alive she would be a potential hazard to them, to be killed as soon as they grew tired of her. They hadn't killed her, so far as was known. But then they wouldn't do it in the open street, would they?
God, no, he pleaded inwardly. Not the other one. Please.
He didn't dare voice his thoughts to Margaret.
He realised Houghton was speaking. "We're in touch with the authorities in Beirut, of course. I'll let you know if there are any developments."
"Yes of course," said Edward woodenly.
"You can be sure the Saudi police are actively investigating the matter. And an appeal for information is being broadcast on the media there. At the present time, there's not much more we can do."
"I'm sure." Suddenly Edward stiffened with rage. "They'd better not let me get my bloody hands on them," he snarled.
"I'll put you in touch with the embassy, shall I?" said Houghton calmly.
"You may as well."
"That's really all I have to say at the moment," he finished. "There's a helpline for people in your situation. Shall I give you the number?"
"No, we'll be alright. Thanks for everything, Jack, and take care. Come on, Maggie." They rose, Edward steering his wife towards the door.
It closed behind them. "It can't be true," Margaret sobbed. "It can't be. Please God, let her be safe. Please."
"All right, Maggie. Let's go home and have a nice cup of tea, yeah?"
Margaret nodded silently. She slumped against him as if suddenly drained of all strength, and he wrapped an arm tightly around her. Gently he patted her on the thigh.
A policewoman escorted them from the building. He kept a firm hold on Margaret as they walked slowly out to the car, relishing the softness of her hair against his cheek. The one positive thing about a situation like this was the way it brought them both together.

It was late evening at the palace in the desert, and in his office, a part of the premises few other than himself ever got to see, Neghid Fouasi sat in silence with his upper lip resting on the knuckles of a partly clenched fist. To an onlooker his expression would have come across as curiously solemn and reflective. He gave a harsh, drawn-out sigh.
His eyes went to the mural painted on the wall of the room, which he'd had specially commissioned, and his mood brightened. The look of weary, dejected resignation on the woman's face satisfied him because it signified submission; her gaoler's total victory over her, crushing her spirit. Irresistible domination.
What attracted and fascinated him about the white race was the diversity of skin, hair and eye colouring, something which wasn't so marked among other ethnic groups. There were brunettes, red-heads, the various shades of blonde. Beyond that, he couldn't really explain why it was white girls he preferred to possess and dominate, and to practice his catholic tastes on. He felt no animosity for whites as a race, not on political or social grounds. Perhaps some irrational but deep-rooted impulse associated whiteness and blondeness with purity and innocence, and
something in him liked to corrupt and despoil that innocence by brutal and repeated sexual violation. Fair skin and hair was often seen in the West itself as signifying vulnerability, and it brought out the sadist in him.
He supposed he wouldn't be able to keep it up continually. You got tired of it after a while, even with the pills, and what about when you grew older? But he had always understood and accepted that. He just wanted to make sure the women were there whenever he wanted them.
He didn't confine his interest to girls from the former Eastern bloc, as so many of his colleagues in the business were happy to do. The girls of each white nation had their own particular attributes and appeal. In these matters Fouasi was truly a gourmet.
He didn't like having to restrict himself more or less to prostitutes. For a start, it was degrading. And you'd get more of a thrill from taking an ordinary, respectable woman who wasn't particularly promiscuous, might even be happily married, and force her to do things she would consider dirty and distressing. But of course that kind of woman was in short supply, because kidnapping and imprisoning her was so much harder to get away with.
There were plenty of actresses, models and porn stars he'd like to get his hands on. He kept their photographs in an album and their films in a special video library at the palace.
He happened to glance at his watch, and abandoned his reflections, realising his guests would be arriving soon. He lifted himself from his chair and went in search of his courtesan.
She wasn't where she should be, and he frowned in irritation. He tried her room. "Come on, Blondie. Where are you, you stupid slag?"
In many ways, Blondie had outlived her usefulness. But she kept the bitches in order, as well as from time to time assisting in his other affairs; getting rid of her just wasn’t worth the hassle of finding a replacement.
He heard splashing from the bathroom and knocked on the door, opening it a fraction. "Get a move on, for fuck's sake. We want the girls organised. My friends will be here soon."
"All right, all right, give me a fucking chance!" said Blondie loudly. "I've only just got in the bath. Honestly!" He heard the swish of displaced water as she levered herself out, grumbling.
Blondie had been reminiscencing dreamily when Fouasi had interrupted her. Thinking that despite the annoyance of being ordered about by him all the time, she was doing better here than she could possibly have done back home, enjoying the status of a respected lieutenant, on whom favours continued to be bestowed as long as she did her job well and kept the girls in line. It was an appropriate point from which to cast her mind back over the past. To think of a husband who abused her, as her father had done before him, and a mother who neglected her, though she had given her her start in life by introducing her to prostitution to help earn money for the family so they didn’t have to exist solely on social security. In fact Blondie, as she had begun calling herself at that time – it had been real then, and the name sounded just right as a professional appellation - hadn’t seen why she should bother signing on at all when there was more money to be got from selling her body, but the source of her earnings could not be officially declared so she had to go through the whole endless, tedious business of signing on, attending interviews and participating in largely useless retraining schemes. She had little enthusiasm for the jobs they did manage to find her, and none of them lasted more than a few months before she was fired for inefficiency, insubordination, absenteeism or gross misconduct.
Soon she was on the run from the law for benefit fraud, soliciting, theft and various other offences. It was all par for the course in her view, but then something happened which gave her cause for serious worry. She had gone in for a spot of baby-minding, failing of course to disclose her previous convictions to the agency which employed her. The kid had been making a hell of a racket, and messing its nappies till the smell was enough to make anyone lose their rag, and the little shit had needed teaching a lesson. Unfortunately she’d hit it too hard and it had died, which meant she’d had to disappear again.
Going back on the game in a different part of London, she had become caught up in a racket which she soon found out exported girls to wealthy clients in the Gulf states. She didn’t really care as long as it enabled her to evade the British police and at the same time make enough money to enjoy a decent standard of living. On the second count she had good reason to feel dissatisfied; most of the cash went to the organisers of the sex ring, leaving a slender allowance which proved adequate for little more than basic needs. But she couldn’t get out of it, so all she could do was make the most of things. She realised she could gain the favour of the souteneurs and the people above them by sneaking on those girls who she knew were planning to escape or were pocketing more than their allotted share of the proceeds. She became what in prison – which this was, in a sense – was known as a “trusty”. Fouasi inherited her when he took over the outfit from its previous boss – probably having murdered him for all she knew - and when it was apparent she came in useful decided to keep her on. Which suited her too because she couldn’t see herself taking on any other role in life, not now. She’d found her little niche and there she was going to stay.
Wrapping a pink robe around her ample body, she went to see to her duties, while Fouasi stationed himself at the entrance to the palace with a couple of his heavies, ready to greet the clients. One by one, the helicopters descended from the sky to the landing strip, disgorging their occupants. Most of them were Arabs but there were a few Westerners present - Russians and other Eastern Europeans, a couple of Americans - and quite a lot from Japan or Hong Kong. Fouasi greeted them warmly and ushered them inside.
A few minutes before Caroline Kent had been taken from her room to join a dozen other girls in the harem - as Fouasi called the room where most of the "entertaining" was done. One by one they filed in; all of them had removed their white robes and stood there in bikinis only. They paraded before the men who stared fixedly at them, almost visibly slavering, gleaming eyes soaking up the spectacle of their naked, nubile bodies.
There was simply nothing they could do but go along with the whole business, either because of the pacifying effect of the drug or because there just wasn't any point in resistance.
Caroline glanced round the room, at the moulded cornices and fluted columns which she suspected were there purely for show and not because they had any practical purpose. The colours in which the room was painted were bright but garish and clashed hideously. The walls were covered with murals. One in particular caught her eye; it showed a young, blonde, white woman in a kneeling posture, naked except for a skimpy bikini which left little of her undoubted assets to the imagination. Her wrists were tied securely together behind her back with several loops of stout cord. A male hand was clamped firmly on her shoulder, pressing her down and keeping her in the kneeling position. Her head was bowed, the eyes partly closed, and the expression on her face was one of total helplessness; complete and utter submission to the will of her captor. The artist seemed to have gone to great lengths to convey that impression.
She stared at it for a long time, astonished and disturbed in equal measure. It was quite obvious what it was saying. Had she been Fouasi she would have at least considered the possibility that those of his customers who were themselves of the white race might object to it. She found it angered and upset her that none of them had.
Of course there was nothing wrong, in itself, with the attraction
of one race to another. The only reservation was if there was a religious difference as well as a racial one and the Christians were right about their faith being the only route to salvation. She wasn't sure where she stood on that one, these days.
Her gaze continued to travel the room. Yet more murals; women, mostly white, in various degrees of nudity, bondage or both, and practising every variety of sexual act and position. And phallic symbols, some of them in the process of ejaculating. A woman was entwined seductively around one.
The next mural was similar except that the woman was tied to the massive erect penis, her hands behind it. Caroline found the symbolism deeply disturbing. Then a bikinied girl lashed tightly to a pillar, thick ropes encircling her body just below her breasts and criss-crossing her stomach.
She knew that whatever delights were revelled in here, the female partners were not engaged in it from choice. It was the compulsion, the desire to sexually exploit the women regardless of their own wishes, that turned what might otherwise have been merely erotic into something downright evil.
Turning to face the assembled clientele, Blondie opened a cupboard built into the wall to reveal an assortment of whips, coils of rope and lengths of chain. "The gear's all here, if you want to use it." She sounded like someone showing a friend round their house, or a solicitous hotel porter acquainting a guest with all the establishment's facilities.
She clapped her hands. "Now, girls, let's show them some fun."
They divested themselves of their bikinis and lay down naked, their legs spread invitingly. A few of the men asked their girl to put the bikini, or half of it, back on. They preferred things that way.
Blondie stationed a couple of the guards by the door, in case of any trouble. They wouldn't mind just standing there, because they could always watch the goings-on and get a kick out of them. As she knew they did.
Satisfied that all was well, she left the guests to practise their desires on the bound and naked bodies of her charges.
In another room an auction was going on. The bidders were given time to cast their eyes over the array of nude girls, each with a number on a plastic disc hanging from a chain round her waist. Then each girl came forward, performing a turn so that her rear view was clearly displayed to them. Here too the clients were a mixed bunch, Western business suits alternating with traditional Arab costume. The girls just stood there smiling amiably, either oblivious to what was happening or accepting it passively.
That night Caroline was lying on her bed thinking of what she had seen, and been made to do, a few hours before when Fouasi came along again. He made the gesture which she had come to recognise as an instruction to undress. She had to be naked while she did what he wanted her to do.
"Kneel," he commanded. She knelt before him and he positioned himself so that her face was level with his loins.
Afterwards she scrambled over to the washbasin, desperate to cleanse her mouth and throat of the taste. She was only barely aware of him leaving.
She climbed back onto the bed and rolled over onto her side, to remain in that position staring intently at the wall, her mind a dazed blank.
An unidentifiable period of time later she heard a key turn in the lock. She didn't bother looking to see who it was. Footsteps crossed the floor and then the bed creaked as a heavy weight descended onto its edge. A hand touched her shoulder.
"You all right now, dear?" Blondie.
Caroline made a non-committal noise.
"I hope he didn't hurt you too much."
No comment, Caroline thought.
"Never mind, you'll be all right with me."
A cold shiver of horror ran through her as she realised what Blondie intended. Then she felt a finger run along the cleft of her buttocks. Angrily she twisted away.
"Don't get me wrong, I'm not a dyke; but I don't mind doing it with girls." Blondie's lips twisted into a sickening smile. "Come on, it'll be nice."
Caroline had known right from when she first became sexually aware that she wasn't a lesbian, and whatever you thought of such things in themselves you didn't like them being done to you when it wasn't your scene. It had been bad enough being taken so violently by Fouasi and his friends; what the hell would this be like?
As with Fouasi she knew there was no point in resisting. She waited, white-faced and trembling, listening to the sounds of Blondie undressing. God knew what the woman's body was like; she daren't look.
She felt the bed groan protestingly beneath her as Blondie climbed onto it. Then a massive body was sprawled crushingly across her, and she felt its naked flesh press tightly against her own.
"You know there's no point in struggling, don't you?" said Blondie. Her sheer weight prevented Caroline from moving; apart from her arms, that was. She'd give as good as she could. She beat Blondie furiously about the head and tried to scratch her face.
She felt the woman grab her arms and force them together, then pull them out above her head. Cold metal touched her wrists and she remembered there was a rail built out from the wall above the bed, whose purpose had not actually registered with her until now. They were crossed over one another and then tied to the rail with some kind of tape.
Having thus secured her, Blondie got down to business. Her pendulous breasts slapped the girl's face as she rode her savagely.
She buried her head in Caroline's breasts, and was busy there for some minutes. Then her tongue began to work its way gradually downward.
And so it went on, in one form or another. She was not, in fact, taken quite as often as she had feared, after her initial novelty had worn off; after all, there were plenty of other girls to satisfy her captors' requirements, and over-use of a particular girl might damage her. Besides which she realised that as much as actual sexual intercourse with his women, the kick for Fouasi lay simply in their being completely within his power; in having them standing around like china dolls laid out in a row, pretty ornaments for him to gaze upon, or moving about on various tasks in the zombie-like fashion of sleepwalkers, in their brief revealing costumes. Some days she was left alone, while on others it could happen as much as a dozen times. Sometimes it was Fouasi, who she was sure took a particular delight in degrading her, sometimes one of his guests, sometimes a guard - it was one of the perks which kept his henchmen loyal - and sometimes Blondie or even one of the other girls. They might drug her while they did it (meaning she didn’t afterwards remember what had happened, which was a blessing) or they might not. While some clients were turned on by a look of dejection, knowing it symbolised their total power over the girl, others found it more exciting if she looked as if she was enjoying herself, her eyes shining and her lips set in what looked like a happy, friendly smile.
Whenever a guest expressed a wish to have sex with one of the girls he was shown photographs of them, or allowed to view them through the hatches in the doors of their rooms, so that he could make his choice. Once he had paid his fee the door would be unlocked and he would be shown in. He would then be serviced in whatever way he desired, with the guard standing just outside in case of trouble.
The guards patrolled every square yard of the place, making sure she and the other girls stayed wherever they were supposed to be. The exercise periods consisted of just walking around a courtyard, getting a few minutes' fresh air, before being ordered back inside.
From outside the palace looked every bit as grand as she had imagined, although she was never in the mood to appreciate it. It was built of white stucco with onion-shaped cupolas, gleaming golden spires and columned porticoes. Caroline wondered how much it had cost to ship the materials out here and build the whole vast sprawling structure, equipping it with all the accoutrements of a traditional Oriental palace. Its owner obviously had wealth on a par with that of any royal prince of the region. He was also, she decided, mad. In one way or another. She seriously doubted whether the world of the harem had been quite as he seemed to imagine it.
The whole complex was surrounded by a high steel and wire fence and beyond that, though they could not see it, were nothing but miles of barren, featureless desert with a few trees here and there.
They were allowed use of a swimming pool, but only under tight supervision. The pool was situated within a courtyard where palm trees stood around, exotic birds sang and fountains played with a soft tinkling noise; she only wished she was in a position to appreciate this pleasant and relaxing environment.
Fortunately, regular medical examinations were carried out by a doctor – disreputable, but competent enough to do what Fouasi required of him - and if there was any serious damage she was rested for a while. By means of pills and frequent injections, against which her body occasionally reacted very badly, pregnancies and sexually transmitted diseases seemed to have been eliminated. All the girls were checked regularly, as were the guests when they arrived, to make sure they hadn’t picked up anything nasty. And some of the time at least, the punters used condoms.
It was surprising that the worst of the medical dangers seemed to have been avoided. She had no idea exactly how they worked, only that Fouasi's wealth seemed to give him access to techniques beyond the power of most people to afford. She still felt it was taking too great a risk.
That she could be left unmolested for long periods did not take away the anger and the distress and the humiliation of it all. She had learned to shut her eyes and think of England (as she had on one or two occasions before this happened, although it wasn’t quite the same thing). But there was always the thought of what might have been done to her while she was drugged. She could tell when they had been particularly violent from the ache in her private parts.
Generally she became listless and lethargic, the mind-numbing boredom sapping her morale and plunging her into a black morass of depression from which it was impossible to lift herself. What hurt you most was the knowledge that you had lost your freedom, that you were just a toy, a plaything, in the hands of these men. They owned you body and soul and could do whatever they liked to either. One course open to her was to try and like it, to enjoy all the perversions; but for one thing the acts she was made to perform were sometimes painful, and her sexual tastes had never extended to masochism. Only a certain type of person, of which she wasn't one, could endure and like pain on a regular basis. It was worst when her clients demanded she shout and scream in ecstasy – a pleasure which she did not and could not feel - and praise them fulsomely, demanding more. The degrading nature of this lay in the fact that it felt so ridiculous and sham.
There were some things of which it was distressing to even think. She had the normal sexual appetite of a woman her age, and was fairly broad in her tastes. But there had to be a limit.
And sometimes they took photographs. To them her degradation was an object of entertainment, to be viewed with no thought for her own feelings and afterwards transformed into a memento in an album.
Some nights she would cry herself to sleep or until the guard banged on the door and told her to shut up or else. For the other girls it must be just as horrendous, with a few exceptions. Those who had been willing from the start to go along with it, uncaring about the sufferings of the rest, were treated well; all the same something made her wonder if it really was better for them.
It was worst, perhaps, for those who had been tricked or forced into prostitution, who had maybe been kidnapped while on holiday, because they were being kept from returning to their native lands, their homes; had families who they cared about, and who cared about them.
One day one of the girls just disappeared. It was thought she had been sold to another slave trader, although it was not an unknown occurrence for a girl to die during sex. Whatever the explanation, Angie Bates was certain that she saw, gazing from the window of her room, a couple of Fouasi's men leave the compound with one of them carrying something tied up in a black canvas bag and slung over his shoulder. The other man was equipped with a spade. She saw them halt a few hundred yards from the gates; the man with the bag dumped it roughly on the ground while his companion started to dig a hole in the desert sand. When he had finished, the other prodded the bag with his foot until it slid into the hole. The excavated earth was shovelled back in, burying it, and when they had made sure their task was done the two men turned on their heels and walked away.

ELEVEN
They had thought it was going to be another ordinary day; in America you caught a domestic airline flight the way you hopped onto a bus.
But before the morning was very old, it had shattered apart in fear and terror. When it had sunk in that they were being hijacked, it had been bad enough. They had felt alarm, and then a kind of nervous resignation, accompanied by tension and unease. Were they to be held hostage, which would mean days, maybe weeks, of stress and fear and uncertainty? And what would the ultimate outcome be?
But most of them, herself included, had kept their cool. It might be things would turn out OK; after all, they knew that incidents like this often had. Maybe the hijackers just wanted to be flown somewhere, and the authorities would grant them their wish. There might be a standoff followed by their surrender. Or a shoot-out in which some people would get killed; but even that possibility was something they could cope with. Such a thing had happened before and the passengers were prepared for it to some extent. None of them could possibly have imagined the horror that followed.
The man lying in his bed in his London flat stirred, a frown creasing his sleeping face.
Gradually, a different kind of unease began to filter down into their consciousness. Why had they been ordered to go to the back of the plane?
She wondered what was happening up front, on the flight deck.
It didn't look good. There was something different about this one, she could sense it.
Images of the hijackers' faces, set in solid stone, loomed up before her. The cold light in their eyes burnt itself into her brain.
His eyes were still shut, but his lips were now working soundlessly. He began to grunt and moan. His restless movements grew more and more agitated, the sheets shifting and billowing about his writhing body.
In the other passengers, too, puzzlement was turning to disquiet.
What WAS this?
Where were they going? They could only guess, their minds filling with frenzied, nervous thoughts. The hijackers were telling them nothing. And nobody dared approach them to ask.
They'd already killed the stewardess. The memory of that poor girl's, that young girl's death filled them with horror and helpless rage. On top of it was the sickening thought that they might be next.
And now through the window, buildings and a river. Tall buildings. A city.
There was something wrong. Surely they were too low, too close to the buildings, for safety. Was it possible that…
No! No! They...they couldn't! Surely no-one could be so...
It had never been like this before. Even though terrorists had killed people on airliners, had shot and knived them and thrown explosives at them, they had never...
I just don't BELIEVE this.
And then the proof, the horrible proof.
"Call your loved ones and tell them you are about to die."
No!!!!
No!!!!
No!!!! No!!!! NO!!!!!!!!!!!!! We don't want to die, for God's sake, we want to live! Do you hear me? We want to LIVE!
But you're going to die.
Oh God what shall I do...
Oh God oh help me
Now he was whimpering like a child as he tossed violently from side to side, churning the bedclothes into a shapeless heap. He had to stop it. He had to stop this horror, this monstrous obscene act. But it was unfolding inexorably before his very eyes and there was absolutely nothing he could do, nothing at all...
The people on the ground looking up in alarm as they heard the roar of the aircraft's engines, unusually loud, and saw it streaking through the sky above the roofs of the skyscrapers. Hey, he's low.
Shit, he's TOO low! What's he doing for Christ's sake?
Oh shit he's heading for the...
Shit he's going to crash
Oh God it's a plane it's going to hit the...
Their anguish and despair as they realised the people on the plane and in the building were going to die, in their hundreds and thousands, and they could do nothing but stand and watch. Oh NO! Oh God no, please! Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease
This can't be true it can't be it can't it can't it can't
Oh Jesus Christ no no no no no no no nooooooooooooooo
And on the plane, the passengers sobbing hysterically into their mobile phones. Oh darling I love you I love you they've said they're going to kill us they...oh I love you and the children too oh I don't want to die please God no let us live let us live let us live I want to live please please please you can't do this let me live I want to LIVE
Oh God we're going to die we're going to die we're going to
The mass of concrete and glass looming up through the window, coming closer, closer...
I can no longer see it through my tears.
Oh Goooooooooooooooooooooooooodddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd
Shit it's almost touching it it's going to hit it's going to hit it's going to...
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
The man's body jerked violently into a sitting position, pulling the bedclothes out from underneath the mattress. His shrill, despairing scream cut through the silence of the night, tailing off as the last of his breath was used up.
He shook and trembled like a jelly, causing the bed to roll backwards and forwards, the castors squeaking and the floorboards creaking with its movement. A medley of inarticulate noises issued from his throat, constantly struggling to form themselves into words but never quite succeeding. But they didn't need to, because every one of them spoke of his torment.
After five, maybe ten, minutes his emotional energies were used up. He covered his face with his hands and for a length of time he could not gauge sat there completely motionless, like some statue of a Buddha overcome with despair at the wickedness of the world.
Eventually he lowered his hands and fingered the jumble of sheets around him. They were sodden with a cold, sticky sweat.
Nothing about his surroundings felt quite real. A world in which such an atrocity had been committed could only be someone's sick and twisted fantasy. Sometimes it seemed the only way to cope with the trauma was to deny everything around him. And that, of course, was impossible. So he could gain no comfort.
The Major had first met Gillian Mary Lands when a delegation from Washington visited Stirling Lines to discuss co-operation and transmission of knowledge and skills between British and American Special Forces. Not quite thirty, she was a high-grade clerical officer with the US Department of Defense. When not actually engaged in combat the Major was quite closely involved in the Regiment's administrative affairs, hence his visits to the Ministry in London, and he found himself working with her regularly; their first contact came when his superiors picked on him to give a talk to her and a few others on how he saw the Regiment developing in the future, and what the advantages were in the way it operated. Afterwards everyone had retired to the canteen for coffee.
The natural friendliness of American girls enabled the reserve which might otherwise have existed between them to be broken down. After several weeks of contact, during which they socialised often, he realised he seriously liked her. The professionalism with which she approached her job was combined with a keen sense of humour. He was delighted by her bubbly effervescence and zest for life; watching her dance at a Departmental party, he marvelled at how much energy seemed packed into that little body.
And she seemed to like him, probably because he conformed to the traditional American conception of an Englishman. She also sensed that something in him needed more than the Army to keep him going, whatever the impression he might give, and was intrigued by and attracted to him as a result. The two of them had in common a certain craziness which he, being a serving soldier, had to keep more firmly under wraps. It was something that imposed a certain straitjacket on him.
He wasn't sure whether her friendliness was merely habitual or a sign that she reciprocated his feelings for her. But he wanted to know. Just before the delegation was due to return home he had finally plucked up the courage to ask her out for a meal. After a little initial hesitance, for she wasn't thinking of commitment at that stage and, not being stupid, knew what the invitation was meant to lead to, she accepted, deciding to put all her effort into the business and see what came of it.
That evening her strawberry-blonde hair was piled up on her head in a way that made her look well foxy, and her lipstick accentuated the natural beauty of her face. He was touched that she had made such an effort to look nice for him.
"Why did you join the DOD?" he asked a little way into the conversation.
"Because if you can prevent a terrorist from coming into your country and blowing people up, even if it's only by pushing pens around, well obviously that’s good." She sighed, and for a moment wore a bitter expression. "It's just a shame Washington doesn't always listen to what we say, or a lot of the hassle could be avoided.” Changing the subject, she asked him why he had joined the Army.
"It was partly because my father did," he grinned, almost apologetically.
"You don't need to apologise for that," she said. "Continuity. There's something very comforting about it. Not enough of the thing these days."
"I sometimes wonder if I'm just doing it out of loyalty to him…if I couldn't be something different, and enjoy it." He found he could be more open with her than with many English girls.
"But it's more than that?"
"It is. In the Army you're taught discipline, comradeship, honour. You learn not to let others down. Those are things this country badly needs. The trouble is, people think they're old-fashioned and have outlived their usefulness. As a result crime's on the increase and everybody sells each other down the river for money, power, fame, whatever. There's too little respect. Too many yobs thinking they can lash out whenever they fancy at anything they don’t happen to like.
"I can't do it so much now that I'm with the Regiment. But when I can, I visit schools and give talks on leadership and teamwork. It proves we have relevance, that we don't just kill people and strut around in uniforms looking mean.
"No, everything's going downhill over here," he sighed. "We're a small country with not enough room for everyone; we're treading on each others' toes and getting nasty as a result. Wanting things there's never an adequate supply of. It's different with the States. America's much bigger and the fact that you have the federal system means there's no one governmental authority looking after everything and getting overburdened with its responsibilities. You also believe in yourself more than we do. You're a tough lot and you'll be around long after everything here has collapsed in chaos."
"You're so sweet!" she declared, touching him gently on the arm. He liked the intimacy of the gesture but how much should he read into it?
A burst of shouting and jeering from the street outside made him look up. Through the glass front of the restaurant he could see, on the other side of the road, two tough-looking youths advancing on a third who appeared pale and frightened. The Major recognised him instantly. He had spoken to him a couple of times - telling him as little as possible about his job, of course. His name was Simon Hoskins. A clever lad and a hard worker, who looked set to win a place at University. Nice, as well. Unfortunately he was socially awkward and introverted, and hadn't had much luck with the opposite sex. He was hardly ever seen with a girl, and as a result the local yobbos had decided he must be gay, which of course meant he also had to be a paedophile, like that man who had been jailed for abducting and interfering with a little girl in Brighton, or Bournemouth, or Portsmouth, or Cambridge, or wherever it was, they weren’t sure. He didn't fit into their view of the universe any other way and they refused to revise their opinion of him in order to avoid a painful questioning of their traditional belief system.
Though at that time of night the street was pretty deserted, they didn't seem deterred by the fact that people could see what was going on. Simon tried to walk away but one of them went to stand in front of him. "Excuse me, I asked you a question," the Major heard the yob say. "Is your name Pete? Pete the paedophile?"
"What's going on out there?" Gillian asked. "Why are they so mad at him? Jeez, he looks so scared."
As the Major explained, he saw her face freeze with anger. Where Gillian came from you simply accepted people for what they were, in the absence of clear evidence they were up to anything illegal or immoral.
"See what I mean," he said. "Excuse me a moment." He stood up and marched out of the restaurant.
The two yobs were so intent on tormenting Hoskins that they didn't register the Major's approach. His towering figure appeared beside them with nerve-jangling suddenness. "What's all this about, then?" he asked sweetly, folding his arms.
"None of your fucking business, mate," one of them snapped, going for the bold approach.
"Oh yeah?" The Major's big hands shot out and grabbed them both by their collars. Next second they found themselves rising an inch or so off the ground.
Gillian had gone to the window and was peering out curiously, cocking her head to try and catch some of the conversation. "The problem with Simon here," she heard him say, "is that he's not very good at picking up girls. Some people just aren't. I think he'd like to be, though. It doesn't mean he's gay, and even if he was it wouldn't justify you picking on him like this. So next time you need to dump your shit, use the toilet like everyone else. In fact, why don't you consider entering into a permanent relationship with it? You'd have a lot in common.
"Whenever you see this chap you go out of your way to be nice to him, OK? Because you never know, I might be watching mightn't I?" He let them go and they dropped to the ground, their feet landing on the pavement with a force that hurt. Simon smiled at the Major embarrassedly, made a clumsy attempt at a thankyou, and went on his way. The two youths hurried off in the opposite direction, scowling in helpless fury.
Dusting himself down as if physical contact with the yobs had contaminated him, the Major rejoined Gillian, smiling in satisfaction. His companion gaped at him in astonished admiration. If she hadn't been sure about him before, she was now.
From then on they were perfectly at ease together, always finding funny and interesting things to talk about. After she went home they'd kept in touch, meeting up whenever one had the time to visit the other's country. Each contact reminded them why they liked each other and could enrich each others' lives. Inside, the Major was like a little child with joy when he heard she was to be permanently attached to the Ministry in London. The change caused her no regrets. She had as many connections in Britain as she had back home, and seemed to inhabit a cosy mid-Atlantic world where you could be equally at home on either side of the ocean.
Towards the end of one of her visits to London he had left her at his flat while he went to a prestigious jeweller's and splashed out on an expensive engagement ring. When he returned to her with it she exploded with delight, enfolding him in an embrace which lasted several minutes. A proper celebration had had to wait because he’d had to go on a mission, but would take place immediately he got back. A couple of days later Gillian had caught a plane to New York, intending to go from there to Los Angeles where her parents lived to personally tell them the wonderful news.
She was crazy enough to marry him despite the probability, higher than in most other occupations, that he might end up dead before he was much older, and at the same time sensible enough to learn to live with it. She would have made a good Army wife. And a wonderful mother; he thought how good she'd been with the children at the party they'd held for the offspring of the working party's members.
But that was not to be. A whole future had been erased in the course of a few seconds by a small band of uniquely evil men. For Gillian had been one of the eighty-two passengers on board the first plane to be piloted into the North Tower of the World Trade Centre during the terrorist attacks on America on Tuesday September 11th 2001. Eighty-two people who had been expected to behave while they were flown to their deaths, men women and children alike, in the process slaughtering hundreds of other innocents.
God, what it must have been like for them. Had she just accepted her death, sitting there calmly awaiting the end? Knowing Gillian, he doubted it. He could easily picture her having a go.
How had the hijackers overpowered the crew and passengers who had given trouble? Had she been tied up, a neatly packaged consignment on its journey to annihilation...or had they slit her throat, like one might slit the throat of a sheep, an animal?
It wouldn't have given him much comfort if she had called him. Anyone who had read or heard about the atrocity knew of the pathetic, heartbreaking messages the passengers had sent to their families in the last few minutes before the impact. But she hadn't called him, and he had no idea what that might mean. She had had her mobile phone on her at the time, as far as he knew.
Wait a moment, that wasn't strictly true. Christ, he thought with a chill, was he now starting to deliberately deceive himself as to what had happened?
In fact, his answering machine had recorded three messages at roughly the time of the bombing. One of them might have been from
Gillian, or it might not. Part of him wanted to find out and part didn't. He had stared at the phone for minutes - hours? - trying to come to a decision. It had dissolved before his eyes into a hazy, shapeless blur. Eventually, the tears streaming down his cheeks, he had reached forward and pressed the "delete" button, erasing all the messages from the machine's memory.
Sometimes he felt a terrible, sickening craving to read the newspaper reports, to know exactly what had happened on the plane from the moment of the hijacking to its awful climax. He knew those reports could give him some, if not all, of the answers.
But he wasn't sure he wanted them. Whatever the truth of the matter he was sure to find it too upsetting. And yet not knowing meant that his head was filled with all manner of disturbing thoughts.
It was a horrible, impossible situation to be in. He had caught snippets from the newspapers and TV, of course, but they had been quite enough.
As for those photographs of the huge red fireball erupting from the top of the tower, he avoided anything which might result in seeing them, and looked hurriedly away whenever they appeared, because the knowledge that inside the inferno Gillian and scores of others were being melted to nothing made him physically sick.
Ever since that unspeakable day he had tried desperately to find a way of conceptualising and expressing the thoughts it had left him with, and now he felt he had succeeded. To him the ultimate insult, the ultimate desecration that had been inflicted on Gillian was that the means of her destruction had also, by deliberate intent, been that by which so many other innocent people, people with families, met their untimely ends. She had been served up as an integral part of an obscene gourmet of death. The loss itself, and the way in which it had occurred, were like two advancing stone walls, cold and hard and rigid, crushing him between them.
He imagined the hijacker at the controls of the plane, eyes shining, face wreathed in ecstasy as the moment of his death rapidly approached, oblivious of or uncaring about the screaming and sobbing from the passenger cabin behind him.
Call your loved ones and tell them you are going to die. It seemed to him it could only have been said mockingly. He knew the hatred and contempt these people had for Westerners and their civilisation.
Then there was the failure to obtain full justice for the atrocity. It had been the work of just a small group of people, unrepresentative of Muslims in general. Everyone was urging restraint on the West in its efforts to hunt down its enemies, and the Major supported that policy for he had no intention of allowing any more innocents to suffer. He knew that many people in the Middle East liked and admired Western women, in a harmless sort of way, and would have been appalled and saddened by the killing of someone like Gillian. And yet it seemed so wrong, so inappropriate, so grotesquely out of proportion, that for a crime in which thousands had died only a few would be punished.
The men directly responsible for the atrocity were dead, and therefore beyond reach of the law. Perhaps they were now burning in Hell, as some had declared, but that was something he couldn't be sure of and the not knowing if justice had been done was a nagging pain in his guts. As for those who had planned and funded the operation, they were still at large and so far all efforts to catch them had failed. It could be years before there was any luck; they might never be caught at all. They would remain at liberty, laughing at the West, while the loved ones of the slaughtered would spend their days grieving, attempting to cope with a pain that could never be entirely mastered.
Once again he groaned aloud with the pain and the horror and the anguish of it all. He could clarify his thoughts but he still couldn't come to terms with it, couldn't understand it, couldn't explain the evil and the hatred and the...
He unclenched his fist and stared down fixedly at the sweat on the palm and fingers.
Someone had rammed a red hot poker down his throat and into his chest and lungs and despite all his efforts he couldn't pull it out. It was burning and choking him at the same time. As for his head, it was as if a steaming cauldron of boiling water were being tossed violently by a ferocious, relentless storm.
The fingers of one hand were twitching and his eyelids flickering rapidly. He felt the burning madness seek to engulf him and send him once again into convulsions. At the moment it seemed he could resist it. But he knew he was standing on a terrifyingly narrow bridge above a vast yawning abyss from which a mighty, howling wind would any second pluck him.
Christ, he thought. I'm not going to cope. I'm not going to make it.
But he was a soldier. An SAS soldier.
He lifted himself off the bed, crossed to the lightswitch and flicked it. Opening the bureau that stood in the corner, he rummaged among its contents until he found the medal that had been awarded to him, secretly of course, for his conduct in Sierra Leone. On it was the emblem of the Special Air Service; the winged dagger with the scroll underneath bearing its familiar motto, "Who Dares Wins". He cradled it in his hands and stared down at it with tears pouring from his eyes again.
At length he put it away and sat down on the bed, his head slumping onto his chest.
He wanted to go to bed and stay there for the rest of his life, to take no part in the world because a world without Gillian in it wasn't worth living in.
He clasped both hands to his head, reeling as the Horror overcame him once more.
He was going to freak out. Any second now. And do...what?
There was only one course of action that he could see. Only one way to stop it.
He went into the kitchen and turned the cooker on. He waited, steeling himself, while the hotplate gradually heated up, the red glow appearing and then increasing in brightness until the whole of the metal ring was incandescent.
He bit his lip, swallowing. For a moment his courage wavered and he stepped back. Then, shutting his eyes tightly and screwing up his face, he reached out and grasped the red hot metal.
For the barest fraction of a second his fingers stayed locked around the hotplate. Then he snatched his hand away with a shrill, wavering scream of agony.
He staggered back, bent almost double. His good hand instinctively flew to the burnt one, to be withdrawn sharply as it touched the raw tender flesh. He slumped against the sideboard, teeth gritted savagely, the tears forcing their way past his tightly closed eyelids. His breath came in short sharp gasps.
Several minutes later he straightened up, turned off the cooker and returned to the bedroom, to fling himself down on the bed again.
The sudden onrush of a pain that was purely physical had driven the trauma from his mind. Soon sleep claimed him.
The Horror was not to return for some time after that, and when it did he knew what to do. But asleep or awake, his head still filled with images that were either sad or horrifying.
He saw Gillian, of course. But there was another face that drifted through his dreams, expanding to enormous size and driving away all the others. The face of a bearded man with brown skin and eyes that burned with fanaticism and hatred.
It was the face of Osama Bin Laden.
The face of Satan.


TWELVE
Edward had taken a couple of weeks off work in order to concentrate on finding his daughter. The first thing he did was to arrange a visit to the Foreign Office.
“What are the authorities out there doing about it?" he demanded of the official who had been delegated to meet him.
"I'm sure they take matters like this very seriously," the man replied.
Edward wasn't appeased. If they did, the official would have had more to say than that, he reasoned.
"Do you think she's been killed? Is she being kept somewhere?"
"It's impossible to say at this stage. I don't want to be pessimistic, but it could be either." The official paused. "There's nothing to stop you flying out there if you want to. But be careful what you say or do, or you might just get in the way.”
"It didn't really add anything to what the chap from IPL said," Edward reported to Margaret afterwards. "Although I got the impression the governments in the region aren't doing enough about this whole problem."
"The thought of what she might be going through..." Margaret was on the point of tears again. He took her in his arms, hugging her and gently kissing the still rich dark hair.
He could feel her body quivering as panic started to seize her. "If she's hurt, or frightened...what if they never find her? What if..."
“Shall I get your tablets?"
"You could do," she sighed. He fetched the little white tube from the sideboard in the kitchen.
Margaret popped several of the pills into her mouth and sank into an armchair, waiting for her nerves to relax. For about half an hour they watched TV in silence.
Then she spoke. "I wish she wouldn't get herself into these situations. She just doesn't think half the time, that's the trouble."
"She's like you in that respect." Immediately Edward regretted the remark.
Her eyes flashed in anger. "Did you have to say that?"
He held up his hands placatingly. "All right, all right. We're not going to help her by bickering."
"I feel so helpless," Margaret groaned.
"It won't make matters any less worse if you screw yourself up over it."
"It's easy to say that."
"What do you want me to bloody say?" He realised they were losing it again. As too often happened when Caroline wasn't around to keep the peace.
"And we've just got to sit here and wait for news," Margaret went on. "I don't think I can stand it."
"I doubt if we've got any choice but to let them get on with the search."
"They won't find her; I know it. It's a completely different culture out there. Oh God, give me strength."
They had reached an impasse. Sighing, Margaret sank deeper into her chair and closed her eyes, using the wearying effect of her stress to send herself to sleep.
Edward went to the mantelpiece and took down a little book of family photographs. He sat and flicked miserably through it. Most were of Caroline when she was a child. He gazed sadly at a picture of a healthy-looking little girl smiling at the camera from the seat of her toy bike.
He collapsed back into his chair to stare through the window at the trees in the garden, once or twice glancing at his sleeping wife. After a time, darkness fell.
Margaret woke and began doing the breathing exercises recommended to her by her doctor as a means of coping with tension. Edward remained where he was gazing into the gathering dusk.
Margaret stretched herself out on the sofa and went to sleep again. The only sound in the room was the monotonous ticking of the clock.
Another minute passed by. Then Edward stood up suddenly, grimly resolute. "I'm not going to sit here getting screwed up about it," he said fiercely. "This time I'm going out there."
It was what Margaret had wanted to hear. "If you are then I'm coming too." She did not want to stay at home waiting for news and worrying; it might kill her. If she was actively involved in doing something to find Caroline, though, that would be a tonic.
"I'm going to book the flight first thing tomorrow morning," Edward announced. "But right now, I think I need some sleep."
Tomorrow would have to be very busy. They had already lost one child. They weren't going to lose the other too, if there was the slightest thing either of them could do to help it.

As the Major left his mews flat and made for where his car was parked one of his neighbours, a retired bank manager named Fred Clifford, approached him and they started to chat.
A couple of sentences into the conversation Clifford shifted, embarrassed. "Oh, er..." He plucked up the courage. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but were you all right last night?"
The Major's immediate reaction was to feign bewilderment. "All right? How d'you mean?" He realised with dismay that Clifford would have noticed his brief look of alarm.
"Well, I heard the most awful row from your place. You must have been having a pretty bad nightmare."
"Yes, I was actually," the Major smiled. "Sorry if I disturbed you."
"Oh, that's all right."
"You don't want to know what it was about," the Major told him.
"I'm sure I don't," Clifford laughed. "Life's depressing enough as it is, these days." With this trite observation, and a nod of farewell, he walked away.
The Major climbed into the car and sat thinking. His mind was taken up by unsettling thought that Clifford must be aware of all the other incidents of screaming and shouting in the night, since he hadn't been away for any length of time during the past few months. In which case his bringing up the subject now clearly had a significance.

"I told her it was too dangerous," said Hamid sadly. He shrugged again. "But she would not listen."
"That doesn't surprise me," sighed Edward. "And that's all you can tell me?" Hamid had just finished explaining about the white slave trade and Caroline's declaration of war on it.
The Saudi seemed to consider. "There is a gentleman called Neghid Fouasi, an Egyptian. It's rumoured he has a place out in the desert where he keeps a harem, in which there are many Western women, who he shares out among his friends."
"I see," said Edward darkly. "And has anyone ever investigated this?"
"Without any proof it is difficult. He is a man who guards his privacy jealously. It is not even known precisely where his palace is."
Edward clapped the Arab on the shoulder. "All right, Hamid old son. Thanks for the help. We'll let you know if anything comes up."
Rifaat in Lebanon said much the same thing as Hamid. "I told her it was foolish, that there might be dangers. But the trouble with Caroline is she always thinks that she is right and will not be told otherwise."
"Well, I'd better get on with looking for her," said Edward gruffly, passing by a chance to gain an interesting insight into what his daughter had been like at school.
"You'll let me know if you have any news of her?" asked Rifaat anxiously. The police had indeed agreed to keep her family's name out of things, but this was only partial consolation for what had befallen Caroline.
"Of course, honey." He gave her a peck on the cheek and said goodbye.
He thought carefully all the way back to the hotel. If what Hamid had told him about the white slave ring was true, Caroline could be anywhere in the whole of the Middle East and North Africa, except for Iraq, which these days was almost completely sealed off from the West, Iran (still more or less shackled by a repressive Islamic fundamentalism), and perhaps Libya (he wasn't sure what Colonel Gaddafi's attitude was towards such activities). He had no idea whether such things went on Israel, although he had been told the place was getting generally sleazier, like most countries.
The police investigation, which so far had turned up not the slightest trace of Caroline, was at the moment confined entirely to Lebanon and there was no indication they were thinking of widening the search at all. On the news they seemed to be downplaying the idea of a sex slave racket embracing the greater part of the Middle East. There was no mention of it at all on the TV, and in the papers very little apart from a couple of paragraphs. Obviously, no-one wanted to offend anyone else. He noted with interest that something controversial was deemed particularly dangerous if it was referred to through the medium of television rather than the printed page.
He came across several posters of Caroline, with appeals for help in Arabic and English. He showed a few people photographs of her, asking if they had seen or heard anything, but he knew in his heart it was pretty pointless.
He didn't think it was wise to concentrate his efforts on Saudi; it was too closed a society. Margaret wouldn't be able to lend much assistance, it being difficult for a woman to get around and do things. Besides, he had the impression of powerful forces blocking too close an investigation. Hamid had hinted that people in the government and royal family were involved in the business and had an interest in keeping it quiet. Maybe Lebanon was a different matter. Keeping someone prisoner, hiding them away completely from the world at large, did somehow seem an easy matter in Beirut; the Lebanese had plenty of experience of that sort of thing, he thought, thinking of the kidnappings and other murky goings-on during the country's 15-year civil war.
"We need to find out more about this white slavery thing before we do any more," he told Margaret in their room later on. "I'm going to do some swotting up. I suggest we head home, as something tells me we won't achieve an awful lot here."

Theodore Malikian was sitting in the car waiting for his team to conclude their inspections. He stared out through the windscreen, his fingers tapping out a constant, monotonous rhythm on the dashboard. He could feel the baking sun through the car's windows, which were almost painfully hot to the touch.
He heard a dozen pairs of feet approach the vehicle and looked up, smiling.
He opened the car door and they all got in. "Do you think you've finished?" Malikian asked them. Everyone nodded.
He felt himself go rigid with tension, heart thumping. "And did you find anything?"
It was Brigitta Carlssen who answered. "There's nothing," she said, sounding totally mystified. "Nothing at all. Everything suggests it's what the Iraqis say it is."
"You're sure?"
"We're as sure as anyone can be," grunted John Cardall. "There's no bloody missiles in there anyway."
"Yukio?"
"I have examined the whole installation thoroughly and with the Iraqis' complete co-operation." The Japanese was carrying a plastic bag containing a pair of gloves, a plastic coverall, goggles and other protective clothing. "There is no trace of chemicals other than those you would expect to find in an agricultural research centre. They would be used in the manufacture and testing of fertilisers."
"OK. Zeke?"
The South African was still wearing his protective suit and helmet. "There's no radiation in there at all. And no equipment which could be used in the making of a nuclear weapon."
"Felipe?"
"It's clean," declared Soares.
"Every square inch of space is accounted for?" Malikian asked, addressing the whole team this time.
"I made sure of that," Cardall said. "I looked everywhere. No concealed rooms or anything like that. Nowhere to hide an effing mouse in."
"It's not a chemical weapons factory or a germ warfare laboratory, and there's no nuclear material in there at all," said Brigitta. Malikian sighed. It wasn't what he had been hoping to hear.
While his team had been doing their stuff inside the building helicopters with sensors for detecting gamma radiation had been overflying the site to test for radioactive elements. Objects were being checked for the magnetisation which resulted from contact with equipment employed in isotope separation. Chemical sniffers had been used to sample the air downwind. Other samples of water, air, soil and accumulated dust or grease on machinery or in air intakes had been analysed for evidence of banned nuclear, chemical, or biological activity. Radar, gravitometry, magnetic variance, electromagnetic induction and ground sonar had all been used to search for anything that might be buried underneath the building. All these tests and more had proved negative.
"How's it going with the other teams?" Felipe asked. Malikian had been in constant touch with them via his satellite phone.
"Well, what's there has been destroyed. Burnt, blown up, confiscated or made harmless. There wasn't a lot of it. A few canisters of chemicals, a very small quantity of uranium.” At heart it was what he’d expected; was it really likely Saddam could have amassed significant amounts of the equipment he needed for a WMD programme without someone noticing, however cleverly he covered his tracks? “Of course, that doesn't mean there isn't more of the stuff lying around somewhere. We can't be sure, not without searching every square inch of the country, but I think we'll have to be satisfied with what we've found for the time being." It seemed that as far as could be ascertained, there were no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.
Unless, of course, there was something funny going on at Quarat.
Malikian glanced again at the vast sprawling installation and breathed hard. They couldn't stay here forever. He knew a decision would have to be made soon.
The others were looking at him expectantly. "OK," he said softly. "I've no reason to doubt you all did your jobs properly." He knew them too well for that. "We'll just have to go back to the UN with what we've found or haven't, and rethink things. Maybe this complex is just another blind. We can't accuse without proof, so we may as well forget about the place for the time being. Let’s go.”

"You've been gone a long time," commented Margaret as she opened the door to let her husband in. "Did you have any luck?"
"Nothing at the library," Edward said. "But I got them to do a computer search for any books on white slavery and they printed out the results." He showed her. "There's not a lot there, as you can see; plenty of general books about slavery, or the black slaves in America, but nothing specifically about white slavery apart from one book published in the sixties."
"The sixties? So it's a bit out of date then."
"Well, the world being the sort of place it is, I doubt things have got any better since then," he said darkly. "Anyway, I went straight up to London, called in at the British Library and got myself a Reader's Ticket. I asked to see the books on the printout. I only had time to browse through them, but they make grim reading.
"Apart from the one I mentioned, which is by a chap called McCandless, there was something on slavery in the modern world, published about ten years ago. It talks about "women from Northern Europe going to feed the brothels of the Middle East and South-East Asia," but doesn't really go into any detail. It also says how an English girl on holiday in Marbella was held prisoner on a yacht by two Arabs and repeatedly raped. She was so badly affected by it that she became a full-time prostitute. That was in the mid-nineties.
"I came across a sort of general bibliography of slavery, but again there's nothing about white slavery except an article in some Spanish journal or other. There must be stuff in there that's useful, but it'd take too much time and money to order all the things listed in it and go through them.
"I've ordered copies of the books through inter-library loan - the British Library isn't a lending library, so you can't take things out - but they could take up to three months to arrive. In the meantime I'll see if I can trace this McCandless; a natter with him might be more useful."

As he drove to work the Major's face was even more set and grim than was usually the case - which was saying something. He knew that if things continued as they were, with the attacks becoming more and more frequent, people would notice something. More than that, they would start to complain. Effectively, Clifford already had. And where he led, the Major knew others would follow. The news would reach his superiors, and...
Whatever he tried to do to control the Horror there was always the danger it would come upon him at the wrong time; when he was at work, or in some public place like a shop, supermarket, park or street.
He remembered the hotplate. Christ, if anyone saw him doing something like that in public, they'd think...
But he couldn't stay shut up in the flat all his spare time. The stress and depression he'd suffer would only make things worse. There would be no way of releasing all the tensions that accumulated in everyday life.
It had helped when he had gone to a counsellor - a civilian counsellor, because he knew what would happen if the Army found out - and explained roughly what his problem was. But only for a time. He had known, from the moment of the first attack almost a week after the atrocity, that only one thing could assuage his anger and grief and channel them in the right directions.
When his unit had been told they were going into Afghanistan it had been wonderful. Absolutely bloody fantastic. There had been no need to feel so screwed up about things, to wake up in the early hours of the morning sweating and screaming and shouting, because they were on their way to sort out the cause of the trouble; to find Osama bin Laden and either capture him or, if he gave them the excuse, kill the bastard.
There was just one problem. Bin Laden had not been there.

THIRTEEN
By a stroke of luck, the firm with which Keith McCandless' publishers had been amalgamated still kept records of its dealings with its authors, and they went back some considerable way. When Edward explained who he was and asked to be put in touch with McCandless they were keen to help. The secretary who took his call told him he'd have to put the request in writing, but that if he did it would be given immediate attention. A couple of days later McCandless phoned him inviting him to suggest a time and a place to meet. As Edward had suspected McCandless had long since retired from full-time employment and was available more or less all the time. That same evening he drove into London to call on the veteran journalist in his Victorian terraced flat near the Bayswater Road.
Now in his sixties, a distinguished white-haired figure who walked a little stiffly, he greeted Edward with formal but sincere politeness. He showed the businessman into his study, whose big French windows looked onto a small, tidy little garden. One wall of the room was taken up by a massive bookcase, its shelves overflowing with publications mostly on subjects related to that McCandless had specialised in. Gesturing to Edward to sit down, he went into the kitchen and returned shortly afterwards with cups of tea for them both.
He revealed that he had been following Caroline's case with interest. Edward told him all he had learned. "I'm not surprised it's still going on," McCandless said as he took his seat. "Although I'm puzzled they should have taken your daughter - if white slavery is at the bottom of it. They normally concentrate on girls who've already become caught up in prostitution."
"She certainly wasn't a prostitute," grunted Edward. He corrected himself inwardly; she isn't a prostitute.
"I'm not surprised you didn't find much on the subject. There isn't. Plenty of stuff about the black slaves in the Americas, and all that, but none on slavery as it affects white people."
"Why do you think that is?" Edward asked.
"I think it has a lot to do with political correctness. We don't like to draw attention to it in case it appears to reinforce the racist stereotype we used to have, and which some people probably still do have, of lecherous Arabs who do unspeakable things to decent white girls. We might occasionally admit it goes on but we don't make reference to it any more than necessary.
"At the same time you have to agree it does seems less serious, particularly in terms of scale. Mind you, it could be that as many whites have been enslaved by non-whites as the other way round, taken as a historical total; the exact figures aren't available and probably never will be.
"Historians tend to downplay the issue as much as politicians do. A book came out recently on the Ottomans - that's the dynasty, the Muslim dynasty, who ruled the Turkish Empire from the Middle Ages until it collapsed after the First World War. It argued that the Western picture of the harem was a distorted one, and pointed out that far from it being a hotbed of lust, a place of rampant promiscuity, the Sultan forbade anyone but himself to have access to the women; as if it was any better because only one person was doing it. In trying, quite rightly, to draw attention to what the Ottomans didn't do, the author glossed over what they did do. The fact is that women were captured and sold into slavery and the better-looking ones sent to the harem. No matter how much we try to find excuses for it, no matter how much we whitewash it by saying it was part of their culture, that's what happened. Even if the Sultan, or whoever was the head of the household in which they served, never actually had his way with them sexually they were still slaves. In most cases they never regained their freedom. They disappeared into what was, in comparison with the Europe of that time, a closed society. Their families never saw them again.
"Unfortunately, because we – meaning white people - have been relatively safe from slavery in modern times and because of all the rotten things we've undoubtedly done to others over the centuries there's a collective lack of sympathy for us on this score, even on our own part. We're the perpetrators and not the victims. At any rate, it arouses less moral indignation. People think slavery is something that only happens to you if you're black." He sighed ruefully. "I guess we're the victims of our own past."
"And yet we have been slaves," Edward said.
"Of course. Right from when different cultures first started coming into contact with each other, there's been a strong attraction to white women in Middle Eastern countries. That's why they were particularly sought after as slaves. Whenever they could get their hands on them, as a result of military conquest or piracy, they did. In all these stereotypes, these myths, there's usually some small grain, at least, of truth; they couldn't come about otherwise.
"I've talked about the Ottomans. There's also the Barbary States, the Muslim principalities of North Africa. Although politically they were part of the Ottoman Empire, they enjoyed a great deal of independence. Over hundreds of years, from the Middle Ages through to the early nineteenth century, many thousands of white Christians were captured by pirates who attacked Western shipping in the Mediterranean, and coastal towns throughout Europe, and sold to the rulers of the states as slaves. It was quite a profitable enterprise. The best-looking women usually ended up in the harem. Some of the slaves were able to buy their freedom and return home, but I expect the majority died in captivity; unfortunately the exact statistics aren't available. I imagine that if the Sultan had a beautiful white slave in his possession he wouldn't be easily persuaded to let her go.
"A much forgotten and overlooked piece of history. It might repay further study.
"I don't know if you've read the Koran lately? There are passages in it which specifically authorise the taking of slaves, where it is desired. Muslim women themselves didn't exactly have a great deal of freedom, so those of the infidel were fair game. That said, I don't believe the majority of Muslims in those days were evil perverts, just as they aren’t now. I imagine they were decent, honourable people who did it because the Koran seemed to be legitimising it.
"Of course, there are some disturbing passages in the Bible too." He leaned back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling. "You could exaggerate the ghastliness of it, in some respects. It was possible to resist your owner's affections, at least for a time, depending on what kind of man he was. They didn't necessarily force themselves on a woman the moment she arrived in the harem, though I guess it could still happen. The Koran actually forbids that sort of thing. I'd say modern slave traders are worse."
"They're the ones I'm mainly concerned about," said Edward.
"Ah yes, of course. You've read my book, I take it?"
"I've dipped into it. I'd have thought it was the first stop on the way."
"I got a lot of stick for it when it was first published. Some people didn't believe me, but I stand by what I said then, or most of it. I've nothing to apologise for."
Edward recalled that McCandless' book had been absent from the bibliography on slavery he had consulted. The introduction to the bibliography had said something about it not including what was merely propaganda. Had its compilers viewed McCandless' book in that light? It was hard to be sure. They had listed another book he had written, on slavery in contemporary Africa, the fact of whose writing surely showed he wasn't just trying to be nasty about Arabs.
"I wasn't being racist; I was simply seeking to draw attention to an unpalatable truth. There are one or two things I regret, such as the bit where I say the true Arab despises all non-Muslims. But that's what we were like in those days. I wouldn't say it now, of course. Whatever you might think of political correctness, we've come a long way since then."
Edward was anxious to get to the point. "But the abduction of white girls for sex slavery still goes on?"
"Apparently, although it seems to be the Far East which has cornered the market these days. Since I wrote my book I've heard all kinds of rumours. It wouldn't surprise me if they were true; human nature doesn't improve with time.
"In the days of the Ottomans and the Barbary pirates it was state-sponsored. You can see it as part of an ongoing war between Islam and the West. Today things are different. Both Islam and Christianity have changed over the centuries, become more humane; although Christianity, in particular, still gets criticised for things that happened hundreds of years ago. And the West is too powerful, militarily and politically, to be provoked without good reason, unless you're a fanatic of the Bin Laden variety, and their game is killing rather than slavery. Diplomatically, there are grave dangers involved in kidnapping and enslaving a white woman. If she is abducted, it's most likely to be by some hardened criminal type who is determined to operate outside the law in any case, or is just too damn stupid to be aware of the risks.
"If she were an ordinary, law-abiding citizen, going to a Middle Eastern or North African country as a tourist or on business; well, it’s likely though not impossible. There have been one or two isolated cases. The interest is certainly there. I heard not so long ago of a celebrity who’d been on holiday in Tunisia with her family, as a child, and this chap approached them and asked how much they’d sell her for. I mean, come on; a white family, and this guy comes up to them and…
“It's even less feasible she could be kidnapped in her own country, although even that can't be ruled out. It was once attempted to smuggle a certain exiled Nigerian opposition politician from Britain to his home country to face trial. He was found drugged in a crate at Heathrow Airport. If it was possible to attempt it with him it could be attempted with others - although personally I wouldn't want to take the risk.
"One thing to remember is that most of the Western girls who get caught up in it will be prostitutes and drug addicts. The sort of girls who've run away from home, been disowned by their families. No-one is likely to make enquiries about them. Diplomatic repercussions are unlikely. The sensible white slaver confines himself to that kind of girl.
“But there are always rumours. It could be forcible abduction is more common than we tend to think. Did you know it's estimated that a hundred white European girls disappear in India every year? Some of them have thrown it all up, gone off in search of a religious experience, to make a totally new start. With others there may be a more sinister reason. There was a Scots girl who disappeared while on holiday there; they think she was abducted, forced into marriage with a wealthy Indian, and killed, perhaps accidentally, when she tried to run away."
"A hundred girls?" Edward was incredulous. "So how come I never get to hear about it?"
"Perhaps because of something I mentioned earlier: political correctness. We don't like to draw attention to the fact that black or brown people really do nasty things to whites from time to time. In particular we're inhibited from saying anything critical about Muslims and their culture, especially after a certain business involving aero planes and skyscrapers. In the current climate it's considered too inflammatory. Consciously or otherwise, white slave traders may be exploiting that situation.
"To be fair, there are other explanations that come to mind. The only cases we hear about are the ones whose families are prepared to make a fuss about it or who the news has got room for. The news schedules can't possibly accommodate everything.
"But it does happen. You can't deny it, it's a simple fact no matter how uncomfortable it might be to the politically correct. It obviously doesn't go away just because the Western media have stopped reporting it.
"I sometimes shudder to think what might be happening in the world that we don't know about. Perhaps it's better we don't know.
"Some of the stories one hears are exaggerated or made up. You'll always get the stupid little hussy who'll make up a story that's completely, or partly, false and sell it to the press hoping to make oodles of dash out of it. It doesn't help those who really have been victims. Often it's hard to separate fact from fiction; you just don't know what to believe."
"Assuming the problem is a real one," Edward began, "what's being done about it all?"
"You may be interested to know there's an International Convention For The Suppression Of White Slavery dating back to 1904. As with other international conventions, not everyone is willing to pay it more than lip service. With the Gulf region the problem is that the West doesn't like to offend the various governments, even if the women concerned are not prostitutes, because for economic and political reasons it's reliant on their goodwill.
"There's a lot of corruption there. Big shots in the government, even members of the royal family may be involved in the trade. It can't be allowed to happen too openly, but happen it does. And where genuine bona fide prostitutes are concerned no-one feels disposed to do much on their behalf. That goes for the public as well as the politicians. The reason why Western “hostesses” in Japan who get themselves into trouble and come to a sticky end aren’t much mourned apart from their family and friends is that people think of them as prostitutes, although if all they do is kiss and cuddle the punters and whisper sweet nothings in their ear because they get a kick out of being pampered by a Western woman, it seems quite harmless to me. Even if they are doing it for money."
Edward got round to the question he most wanted to ask. "So where do you think my daughter is now?"
"Well, when I wrote my book there were four principal centers for the white slave trade: Iran, Lebanon, Syria and the Gulf States.
The Tehran end was put paid to by the Ayatollahs when they came to power, or at least I assume it was; one of the few good things they did. It probably moved elsewhere. The girls would have been deported, maybe after having been imprisoned for a short time. Syria I don't know about. In Lebanon it was finished off by the civil war, but I'd always suspected it would move back in there now that the trouble was over." He thought carefully. "Right now the Lebanese are trying to reconstruct after the war. All the sleaze is valuable because it's bringing money into the country, and I suppose...I suppose it's possible that if someone was earning enough cash for Lebanon through organizing it, they and their activities could be protected by people in the government there."
"From what I've been told," said Edward, "someone's definitely trying to bring it back."
"At a guess, that's where Caroline is. Or in the Gulf somewhere. But it's so long since I carried out my researches back in '67 that I really can't be sure. I don't know how different things are now."
"How do these people operate, going by what it was like in your day?"
"They recruit prostitutes from among the kind of girls who are vulnerable, whose disappearance won't cause a stir. The product of broken homes, largely forgotten by the rest of society. Sometimes their victims are already on the game, sometimes they're not.
“Another favourite tactic of theirs is to hang around bars and nightclubs posing as agents for theatrical companies. They'll persuade some brainless bimbo she's actually quite talented and arrange for her to go on a tour of the Middle East with a fake rep company. The softener - that's the chap in the field, whose job is to do the "recruiting" - is told to look especially for girls with blonde hair, blue eyes and fair skin, because that type is particularly in demand in the Middle East."
Edward stiffened. Caroline.
"That's one reason why a lot of the "escorts" who travel round Kuwait entertaining wealthy businessmen and politicians are from the former Soviet bloc. There seem to be a lot of natural blondes there, probably more than there are in western Europe.
“Anyway, the girls’ be shipped out to Lebanon or Saudi, and once they were there they'd be made into drug addicts to ensure their compliance. If any of them misbehaved they'd be beaten, deprived of their drugs, and sent to one of the rougher brothels in somewhere like Beirut. When they grew too old - and in the slavers' view "too old" meant anything over thirty - they'd be thrown out onto the street, perhaps sold to a beggar who'd hire them out as a means of supplementing their income. Before long they'd be dead from a combination of illness, malnutrition and abuse. Prematurely aged. Their passports would have been confiscated so it'd be difficult for them to get back to England. It wouldn't surprise me if one or two of them were still out there.
"Nowadays it isn't really necessary to force women into it, you just pay them a lot of money and they take it. You win them over with presents, of money or jewels or whatever. You don't really need prostitutes in the fuller sense. Importing foreign girls as hostesses is traditional in some parts of the world; you fly hookers, models and beauty queens out to Kuwait or wherever and back again, giving them blood tests at the airport, and pay them up to £3 million per year to entertain the Prince and his pals. They can stay as long as they like.
"It's gone too far at times. There was that case when a member of the royal family of Brunei was sued by a former Miss USA who claimed she'd signed up to do promotional work for him, but when she arrived in the country she was drugged and had her passport confiscated. She woke up with her clothes disordered, having clearly been sexually assaulted. She was then forced to "entertain" the Prince's friends at various parties. The case was dismissed but it seems to have done a lot of damage. The newspapers were filled with similar tales from women who'd been lured out there, including a Miss UK runner-up who said she'd been flown to Brunei supposedly for attending palace functions but when she got there found she was expected to engage in prostitution, along with a number of other Western girls, for the prince and his friends. She won £500,000 in an out-of-court settlement.
“More recently the son of a certain Middle Eastern leader paid an escort agency to send some prostitutes to entertain him and his friends at a party he was giving; this was in a Western country. When the girls refused to go along with it, he pulled a gun on them." McCandless might have added that the reason they refused was that they had heard about the weird proclivities of the VIP and his associates; their tastes went beyond "straight" sex, and Western women appealed to them because they believed they could make them do the things their own females would indignantly object to. But he was thinking of Caroline Kent, and didn't want to upset her father.
"I wasn't sure whether it still went on the way it did in my time. So I don’t know, from all you’ve told me, whether what’s happened to Caroline and her friend is a continuation of what was going on in the sixties or something new.”
Edward decided he had quite enough to be getting on with. McCandless seemed to sense the interview was at an end. "I hope you find your daughter," he smiled.
Edward said his thanks and left, feeling extremely angry and not much reassured.

FOURTEEN
In the staff common room at International Petroleum, the mood was less subdued than Chris Barrett reckoned it should be. He sat and sipped his tea with the others, trying to suppress the depressing thoughts going through his mind.
Caroline might be a pain a lot of the time, but when she wasn't here you found yourself missing her badly. She was just so alive, Chris thought, feeling a slight dampness at the corner of his eye. Such a range of different moods, such a powerful, omnipresent personality.
It wasn't the first time the possibility of some harm coming to her had produced such a reaction in him. If she's dead, please God tell me she didn't suffer. Better still, bring her back safe and sound.
"I don't suppose there's been any news of Caroline?" he asked his colleagues, even though he would have heard about it if there had.
"Not that I know of," said Mark Goodison from Accounts. He gave Chris a sympathetic look. Goodison was one of the nicer people with whom he came into contact in the course of his work.
"Hennig doesn't seem particularly worried," Chris remarked bitterly. Marcus Hennig was Managing Director of IPL UK and their overall boss.
"He wouldn't be. After all, he doesn't like her does he?" Caroline was always imposing her own schemes on Hennig, while doing her best to obstruct any projects of his she knew would not be conducive to the welfare of her staff (she liked to think of them as "her" staff).
"I think we should do something," Chris said suddenly.
Goodison looked at him in surprise. "Like what? What can we do?"
"I'd like to be out there looking for her." He knew he wasn't the only one who did, despite all the jokes to the contrary that ran round the place.
To be honest, it wasn't just a case of altruism. "I mean, what's going to happen if she doesn't come back?" And it's looking increasingly less likely that she will, he thought despairingly.
"Things will be in a right bloody mess."
An executive named Nigel Daneman looked at him in some surprise. "Tom will take over, surely?" He sounded not just surprised but offended.
"If she doesn't come back," Chris said, brutally ignoring Durham, "we're going to get Tom Leonard. Now I don't know about you but personally I think he's a time-serving, toadying, conniving, deceitful, self-righteous, arrogant, patronising little reptile."
"He does his job well," said Daneman indignantly.
"So does Caroline. And given a choice between someone who did their job well, and someone who did their job well and at the same time wasn't a complete and utter arsehole, I know who I'd prefer.
“I think Hennig's hoping she doesn't come back. Then he can appoint Leonard and have someone who does whatever he wants them to, if only because they're hoping to get his job at some point in the future.
"Leonard will get rid of the people he doesn't like, with Hennig's full approval, and he'll palm off all sorts of rotten jobs onto us. It's going to be absolute shit here. I'll probably end up handing in my notice."
"What about Iain?" someone asked. "Won't he take it on?"
At present things were running smoothly enough under Iain Jardine, Caroline's deputy. Chris liked the soft-spoken Scot; he'd always been happy to stand up for a colleague even if it meant making himself unpopular with the management, and to accept the position of number two even though he was older and far more experienced than Caroline.
"Iain doesn't want it," said Chris. "He's said so many times. At his age it'd be too much hassle. And anyway, Hennig doesn't like him either. Without Caroline's ability to survive he won't stand a chance."
"If there's the slightest chance we can get her back..." he began, then tailed off with a sigh.
"I don't see what any of us can do," Goodison repeated. Chris knew he wasn't just being defeatist. The situation was hopeless, or so it seemed. And yet he knew he couldn't just sit here moping about it.
With a sigh he left the room, dumping his cup in the sink as he passed it. Well if they weren't prepared to do something, he was. Even if he had to sacrifice all his annual leave. He had stuck up for Caroline many times before, as she had for him, and he wasn't going to let her down now.
"Ah, young Barrett," said Marcus Hennig as Chris knocked and entered his office. "What can I do for you?" He remained seated behind his extensive desk.
"It's about Caroline," said Chris.
"Ah, yes," Hennig sighed, putting down the papers he'd been working on and regarding the desktop with a solemn expression. "Yes...it's an awful business, isn't it?"
Chris nodded. I was wondering if, er, if you could spare me for a while...so I could go out there and help look for her."
"It's up to Jim Foxley, surely? He's your line manager." It would normally be Jardine, but unfortunately he was off sick that day. "What did he say?"
"He didn't let me go," said Chris embarrassedly.
Hennig frowned. "And you're proposing I overrule him?"
Well you're the one in charge here, not him, Chris thought with suppressed anger. "Well, er...if you feel able to do that."
Hennig considered for a moment. "How long for?" he asked doubtfully.
"Well...no more than a few weeks, I suppose. I'm happy to use up
all the leave left to me for this year." Before Hennig could answer he went on, "The thing is, it's just that Caroline and I...well, we've been through a lot together. I like to think she's a friend. I don't like to think about what might have happened to her, what she could be going through. I'd really appreciate it if you could let me go out there."
Hennig was embarrassed at this expression of affection by one employee for another. "I'm sorry," he said at length. "We can't have our staff disappearing all the time. Bad enough that it's happened to Caroline."
"I doubt if it's going to happen to me," Chris said.
"I didn't mean that. I mean it'll affect the running of the office if too many people are away. There are already more off than I'd prefer with a major recruitment drive in progress and the annual audit due.
"Not that that's the only consideration," he added hurriedly. "But I'm afraid we'll just have to sit tight and wait for news."
"If there is any," said Chris.
Hennig gave a wistful smile. "Yes...if."
"Everyone's really worried," Chris told him. He shifted indecisively, eyeing the carpet, then ran a hand through his forelock, while Hennig regarded him impatiently. He took a deep breath and tried again. "Look, Mr Hennig, I really would be grateful if..."
Hennig pointed a finger at him. "Don't want to hear any more of it," he said briskly. "All right? I've made my decision. I'm sorry about what's happened, I know you and her are close. But you consider my position. It's a nasty world we're living in when people get killed or kidnapped but it'd create as much of a mess if companies like ours couldn't function properly."
"All right," said Chris. "Well...thanks anyway." The words sounded inane to him. He turned to leave, feeling bitter and disappointed but knowing in his heart that what Hennig had said was quite right.
After he had gone Marcus Hennig sat for a while gazing at the rain-streaked window, troubled by thoughts he wanted to entertain, to revel in, but knew he shouldn't.

Caroline Kent was living all the time in the horrible fear that stress and despair would eventually sap her ability to think clearly. But so far, so far, that had not happened. She could still think, and plan, whenever she was not under the influence of the drug.
Somehow she had to get out. But how, for God's sake? She knew he couldn't expect Major Mike Hartman and his SAS unit to come crashing in through the windows to rescue her. If she was to free herself from this durance vile it would either be by her own cleverness, or by exploiting something someone else had done or not done.
She had set her mind to work on a solution until the effort of thinking was almost physically painful, and yet none chose to present itself. The security was just too tight.
But inevitably people would from time to time make mistakes in whatever they were doing, or be plain careless. It was just a case of waiting for that to happen. Eventually, it did.
One day, they forgot to lock the door of her room. At the same time, the guard whose job was to patrol the landing wasn't doing so because he had assumed the door had been locked and there was no chance of the girls getting out, thereby excusing his lounging about in the rest room for a while watching television.
She didn't think she stood much chance of getting out of the place, but if she could find a phone, and contact the outside world...
She came down the stairs, and turned right into a short corridor ending in a T-junction. She took the left-hand turning, and found herself in a part of the palace she'd never been in before. It was a sort of atrium, with pot plants dotted around and a door in one wall.
There might be a phone in whatever room lay behind the door. She crouched down and eased off her slippers, then padded slowly and cautiously towards it. As she came closer she heard a voice speaking in Arabic, then another.
Shit.
While she waited for the room's occupants to finish their business and leave it, she might as well listen. There was a set of draperies nearby behind which she could hide if it seemed they were about to come out. She crept up to the door.
The voices were both male, and she thought one of them was the guy who spent the most time rogering her, the one who seemed to be in charge here. Arabic wasn’t her first language and the words were muffled by the thickness of the door, but she could pick out enough of what was being said. Certainly, when she later went over what she thought she’d heard it made sense.
"The missile itself is ready. We just can't get the stuff to go into it. We need another 150 million pounds."
"It should not be too difficult. I would need to make one or two profitable sales, but there will be opportunities coming up shortly."
"Well, as always we're very grateful for your help in this project. The money, and the other things you obtained for us. Yes, my leader will be well pleased with you."
"There'll be plenty of rewards for all of us, if it succeeds."
"Aren't you worried that someone will find out what's happening here, though? The Swedish girl's already told the whole world her story."
"I keep on telling people, no-one will do anything. The political risks are too big."
"I still don't think you are very happy about it."
"No-one would be happy about it. Look, if there is any danger it's all the more reason to hurry up with the project. It must be completed soon."
"I will make sure my leader understands the position you are in. He too is anxious to move things on."
"If the project succeeds," Caroline heard the boss man say, "everything will be different. We won't have to worry about exposure."
"And no-one knows what you're doing? No-one suspects?"
"So far, no. Spy planes have gone over but they're not likely to notice anything."
Caroline heard the men get up to leave the room. She concealed herself behind the draperies.
"While you are here perhaps you would like to make use of the facilities," Fouasi was saying.
"Why not?" the visitor replied.
She heard the door open and peered out cautiously from behind the curtain. She saw Fouasi emerge with another Arab, a shortish heavily built man with a thick moustache.
Fouasi shut the door, then produced a key from an inside pocket of his suit and locked it. Her heart sank.
As the two men disappeared Caroline slipped out from her hiding place and scurried away. She had no particular idea where to make for, she just hoped that in her wanderings she might come across something that could help her escape.
She passed another curtained alcove. In a sudden movement which took her completely by surprise the curtain was thrust aside and Blondie dashed out. Before she could react a plump hand seized her by the wrist.
The woman's eyes gleamed and a grin of malicious triumph split her face. "Got you."

I have to think about this, the Major thought. I have to apply my mind to the problem and strain it until I find a solution.
He had tried to use aggression, controlled aggression, to sublimate the anger and hatred that threatened to burn him up. He'd stepped up the jogging and the other forms of physical exercise, trying hard to make himself feel that in doing well at them he was somehow achieving the aim he desired. Whenever he went into the gym at Hereford and smashed his clenched fist into the punchbag it was bin Laden's face he was hitting. But building up bin Laden as the object of his hatred was dangerous because the means to punish the man was lacking. He would only nurture feelings which could not be safely appeased.
"You were going like you were shagging Venus," said a friend and fellow officer after one session. "What's the matter with you?"
"I guess it's pissing me off that we didn't manage to catch you-know-who," the Major said. He knew he was on safe ground here; his sentiments were shared by everyone else in the Regiment.
His friend slapped him on the biceps. "You're not alone there. Take it easy, Mike, there'll be plenty of other people to sort out."
"Well if we can't find him," Hartman said, "no-one can."
"I'll tell you where he is now - in Pakistan. He knows we can't get him out without upsetting the situation there and bringing about his precious holy war. It's what I'd have done."
"I know we can find him," said the Major sadly, and for a moment he almost let his feelings overwhelm him. "I know we could."
He went off to take a shower.
The lads had noted the upsurge in aggression and determination in him, and no doubt wondered whether there might be a reason for it. He'd had to calm down a bit. They could have no idea of the incredible, hideous strain he was being subjected to every minute of the working day, trying to keep his agony secret. To act normally, going about his tasks with his usual brisk efficiency, and greeting problems in a cheerfully unflappable fashion. He was afraid that at any time the mask might slip and reveal something horrific and pitiful.
What the long-term solution to the problem might be he hadn't the faintest idea, but there was something which went a little way towards being a short-term one. He went and saw the staff colonel who handled all personnel matters within the regiment.
"I'd like to take a couple of weeks' leave if that's OK. Of course I'll have to cut it short if it turns out we're needed."
The colonel looked at him in some surprise. "You'll use up all your remaining entitlement for this year. You sure that's wise?"
"A lot of things have come up that I really need to give some time to."
Aware that vagueness would only increase people's suspicions, he had already thought up some carefully fabricated excuses. They seemed to satisfy his superior officer.
"What dates are we talking about?"
"From the 21st to the 5th."
The colonel consulted his diary to see who else, if anyone, was on leave during that time. "Yes, that seems to be OK. Fortunately, we seem to have reached a sort of hiatus in this grand campaign against terrorism. Things appear to be getting back to normal."
"I just hope it lasts, Sir."
"So do I."
The 21st. A little over a week's time. Somehow, he had to hold out until then.

Edward shouted so loud that Margaret actually jumped out of her chair in alarm. "I've got it. I think I know how to get her out."
After his meeting with Keith McCandless Edward had gone home and sat thinking carefully, considering everything he knew about the white slave trade. And remembering something Caroline had told them before she went to Saudi Arabia; something about a meeting in a nightclub, and a false variety outfit.
McCandless had said, "they recruit new girls for the organisation by posing as reps for bogus variety companies. They hang around bars and nightclubs, eyeing up the talent, and when they've spotted what looks like suitable material they make their move."
Edward put two and two together.
He got out the Yellow Pages and skimmed through it until he found the section on nightclubs. He noted down the names and locations of all the entries on a flimsy and tucked it in his pocket.
It was most unlikely the "souteneur" would be found at the Ruby G's after Caroline had exposed him there. But the other nightclubs in the area....maybe. If not, the prospect of having to look further afield didn’t daunt him. He'd check out every bloody nightclub in the world if he had to.
He became aware Margaret was talking to him. "Edward, if you've thought of a way to find Caroline then I'm sure I'd be interested to hear about it."
"It could be a little dangerous," he replied ominously.
"Oh," said Margaret worriedly.
"Of course it is," Edward snorted. "We're swimming in murky waters here, love. But I don't think there's any other way. And I think we're both determined to get her out of there whatever the cost."

In the centre of what was known as the Punishment Room, built into the floor, was a wooden structure consisting of a low rectangular dais, large enough for a prone human body to rest on. It had a groove on each side running the whole of its length so that the four wooden posts which at the moment were located at its corners could be slid into new positions if required, with wedges for locking them in place.
Caroline Kent was sprawled face down on the dais, naked, tied to the posts by her wrists and ankles. Her face, turned slightly towards the watching girls, was drawn tight with fear. One of Fouasi's heavies stood over her, clutching the handle of a vicious-looking whip.
Blondie was standing nearby with her hands clasped before her in usual fashion. Once the guards had finished herding the girls into the room she gave them time to look at Caroline, to realise what was about to happen to her.
"This girl," she told them, "has been naughty. She's been ungrateful; repaid all the love and comfort we shower on you here
by trying to run away. And we all know what happens to people who do that, don't we?
"Well, now it's going to happen to her. It's not very nice to have to do it but I'm afraid there isn't any choice. We don't want this kind of thing happening too often, do we? I'm sure we're all very upset about it; still, she hasn't been here that long, maybe she'll learn not to be so silly in future."
She nodded to the guard.
He raised his arm high above his head and drew it back, summoning up all his energy for the downward stroke. The position she was in meant Caroline couldn't see what was going on, couldn't tell when the blow was going to fall, couldn't prepare herself for it.
The whip cracked viciously across her bare back and her nervous system exploded with the stinging pain. She was quite powerless to stop herself screaming. A stripe of blood appeared where the blow had landed.
The second hit before she had time to recover from the first. Again she screamed.
Savagely she clamped her mouth shut, using every atom of her willpower in repressing the urge to cry out. But the constant blows, landing in rapid succession, giving her little time to steel herself for each one, proved too much. She gave up and let forth a stream of obscenities, words she'd never thought she could be capable of using. It was the only relief she had.
Mostly the girls just looked on in mute horror. One of them turned and walked quickly away, unable to bear the sight any longer. Immediately Blondie marched over to her, took her by the shoulders, swung her round and frog-marched her back, forcing her to look as the whip fell and fell again, criss-crossing Caroline's back with the red stripes and leaving the skin around them raw and livid. It cracked thirty times in all. When he had finished the heavy bent over Caroline and untied the ropes fastening her to the posts. She lay very still between them, weak and barely conscious.
As he scooped her up in his arms and carried her out, you could just about hear her crying softly.
"That's it, you can all go back to your rooms now." Slowly and silently the girls filed out.
Like several others Mandy Dixon was pale-faced and trembling. She'd always known what happened to the girls who gave trouble; since she herself was happy to stay with the Syndicate the thought hadn't caused her that much concern. The girls who got flogged had been warned about the consequences of misbehaving and had only themselves to blame.
But Caroline had tried to help her. Mandy had never really appreciated that; if she did suffer at the hands of drug dealers and pimps, well that was just the way it went and she had always felt derision for the do-gooder types who worked themselves into such a lather over it. But somehow the fact that Caroline had been beaten because of it - the beating wouldn't have happened if she hadn't tried to rescue her from her minders and been kidnapped by them instead - touched something deep within Mandy. In a way the girl couldn't find words to explain, it didn't seem right. It was...disturbing.
But what could Mandy do about it, now? Nothing at all, not with-out suffering the same punishment as Caroline. It was just too risky. She was in it too deep.
For the first time the life she was living didn't seem so nice. For the first time, and to her discomfort, Mandy Dixon realised she was completely and utterly trapped.

Edward felt uncomfortably and embarrassingly out of place at the nightclub. The music was too loud, there was too much smoke, and you had to shout to make yourself heard. He was at least twenty years older than most of the other people present and had the uneasy feeling that he was regarded as a middle-aged pervert out to eye up the talent.
"All right, mate," a young man shouted to him. "All right?"
"All right," he replied genially, raising his glass.
It was the fifth place he had checked out so far, with no luck. He wandered around studying his fellow clubbers keenly, looking out for anything in their body language that suggested they were there for a specific purpose.
A smartly-dressed, fair-haired young man caught his eye. Like him the man was discreetly eyeing everyone, but seemed to be paying particular attention to the ladies. When the music began and people started to dance his eyes became riveted on the girls, watching every move they made. Studying them. There was something about his scrutiny which suggested more than just a red-blooded young male on the pull. It was too intense, too sustained, too analytical. As was the way he had listened to the conversation of those sitting at the tables.
Edward kept his attention focused on the man, looking swiftly away whenever he caught his eye. Eventually he saw the youth select a pair of girls sitting chatting at a table in the corner, and move in on them. Edward chose an empty seat not far from the trio and planted himself on it.
He was just close enough to be able to catch snippets of the conversation. "How do you fancy...there's plenty of cash to be made...well if your folks don't mind then we won't."
His pulse quickened.
"Don't worry, that'll all be taken care of...Yeah, well you think about it love, OK? See you tomorrow, then." The fair-haired man moved away, leaving the girls chewing on whatever proposition he had just put to them.
Edward took a deep breath, steeling himself. He sidled up to the young man, who stood sipping at his drink and trying to look casual. "Excuse me," he said cheerfully. "May we have a word?"
The youth started, then swiftly composed himself. "What about?"
Edward leaned towards him with a crafty, conspiratorial smile. "I know what your game is," he whispered.
The youth shrugged, looking nonplussed. "I dunno what you're talking about, mate."
"I know where those girls are going. I know because I've done all that sort of thing myself."
"I said, I dunno what you're talking about."
Then his manner changed and he scrutinised Edward keenly, trying to size him up.
He doesn't look like a copper, the youth was thinking. "Who are you?" he asked.
"My name's Fitch," said Edward. "John Fitch." He extended his hand and the younger man took it, a little doubtfully.
"We're not doing too well at the moment, for various reasons. Need to make ends meet. So I thought perhaps an exchange of stock might be in both our interests. Is it a deal?”
The blond man thought for a moment. "I want you to put me in touch with whoever's running your outfit." He still sounded cautious, defensive. "I want to make sure it's all kosher, you see?"
"Fine," said Edward genially. "Don't worry, I understand. I guess I'd do the same." Fiddling about in his pocket, he produced a business card and handed it to the young man. "Ring the office and they'll sort it out." He grinned craftily. "Not a real entertainment company, of course.
"After you've cleared everything with the boss I suggest you come and have a look at our outfit, see it all for yourself. We've got a place near Heathrow you could check out. I'll show you around."
The man took the bit of paper, then with a muttered "OK" and a brief nod went off.
Edward saw the door close behind him. He waited a while then got up and left.
The following morning the yellow-haired man made a call to the number on the card Edward had given him. "Yeah?" answered a rough voice.
"Heard you want to do business. You're in the same line of work as us, I gather."
"Who is this?"
"A bloke called Fitch gave me your number. John Fitch."
"He's one of my lads."
"And is he a bloke in his fifties? Fair hair?"
"Yeah, that's right."
"I was just calling to check you were OK. Can't be too careful, y'know. Could have been a set-up."
"Do me a favour, mate! The fucking cops have got too much on their hands right now to be bothered about a few stupid little tarts who deserve what they get. Of course we're OK."
The young man felt himself relax. The man he was speaking to sounded exactly like the kind of company he had been keeping since he was old enough to understand what crime was and how it could be made to pay. Tone, manner, and choice of words were exactly what you’d expect from such a person.
The man went on to confirm everything Fitch had told the souteneur about his organisation. "We operate mainly in the Far East these days. That's where most of the action is going on."
"All right, then. OK, I'll be seeing your bloke soon to discuss a few things."
"Great. Speak to you soon, maybe."
In his rented London flat Rod Fuller put down the phone and congratulated himself on a first-class performance.
It felt good to be back in business. He'd had virtually no work during the last five years. Everyone thought acting was a lucrative job with all kinds of perks, when in truth it was a tough business which didn't always pay. There were hundreds of actors chasing thousands of parts; in other words, there just wasn't enough work for everybody. It was the reason why even some fairly well-known faces disappeared from the acting scene for years before eventually landing a good role which revived their career. There were those who never resurfaced at all, having found some more stable and profitable occupation.
He had been moping around in his run-down and untidy bedsit when Edward Kent had contacted him through his agency, explaining that he was the man whose daughter had disappeared in Lebanon and had decided Fuller could be of some assistance in getting her back. He had of course been pleased to help. He had been offered a handsome sum for it, more than he'd ever earned from the BBC. But there was more to it than that.
Rod Fuller had been a Cyberman in Doctor Who, which had meant strutting about in a tight-fitting, uncomfortable costume that completely hid his face, telling people that they were his prisoner and resistance was useless, and uttering similarly profound and stirring dialogue before being shot. He had had bit parts in Casualty and the Bill. He wondered if anyone would remember him in twenty or thirty years' time.
He'd just had his finest hour, helping to rescue a young girl from a fate worse than death - from death too, maybe. It was something he would always take pleasure in, whatever else happened. The sad thing was that no-one, for the time being at any rate, could possibly be allowed to know about it.

At some point in her ordeal, she couldn't say when because she had lost all sense of time, Caroline Kent came to the conclusion that even death from starvation and thirst in the burning Arabian desert would be better than the continual abuse of her body and mind to which she was being subjected - and which wasn't much different from the treatment that had been meted out to her in the Punishment Room. And so every morning from then on she tried to slip past her guard and escape. It was a senseless gesture - she might evade one of them, but the next would invariably stop her from getting any further - but she kept on doing it; if nothing else, the thought she was being a nuisance kept her spirits up.
Eventually the sheer tedium and irritation of it wore the guards down and they complained to Fouasi through Blondie. "It's the fifth time she's tried to escape," the Englishwoman informed him. “She's becoming a pain in the arse. The hiding we gave her hasn't made a scrap of difference."
Fouasi scowled. He'd known there'd be trouble with the girl. If they beat her up too often she would lose her attractiveness, to him and to his guests. He wanted only the best, and she knew it. They couldn't increase her dose of the drug without turning her into a shambling wreck. There had to be some semblance, however artificially contrived, to a healthy and fit girl in a normal state of mind. He supposed that if she wasn't like that to start with there would be no pleasure in degrading her.
He had had his fun with her, he decided. He still liked the idea of debasing her, because she’d had the fucking nerve to try and expose his outfit, but he didn't want to do it here.
"We could send her to the Rue St Antoine," Blondie suggested. "If she doesn't like it here, then she can see what it's like in a really rough joint."
"You're too fucking right. And we'll still be able to make some money out of her." Fouasi reached for his satellite phone. "I'll tell Max to expect her, and we'll ship her out from here as soon as she's been given the new dose."
A worrying thought occurred to Blondie. "Hang on, the cops are probably still swarming about like flies over there. Wouldn't they - "
"Don't worry, I can make sure no-one touches us. She won't be wandering around much when she's full of the drugs. And after she's been there for a while no-one's going to fucking recognise her, never mind get her out of it. She won't even know what's going on herself."

The Victorian house was large, set back a little from the main road within a garden big enough to be more of a park. Externally it was ugly and forbidding; inside, garish and tasteless. Edward had chosen it well; it was exactly what he knew brothels to be like.
In the spacious drawing room, he sat chatting to the two representatives of Fouasi's organisation. One of them was French and the other Russian, a further sign of the international nature of the business. From the swimming pool outside came splashes and the sound of both male and female laughter.
"We have a few places like this here in England, but most of the business goes on overseas," Edward was saying. "Like you we recruit girls from all sorts of places; nightclubs, casinos, modelling agencies. Sometimes we pull them right off the street, if they're good-looking enough. They're usually the stupid sort who haven't a clue what they're letting themselves in for. There are a few trusties; some girls have been with us for years now."
He handed them a bunch of papers stapled together. "That shows the state of our finances at the moment. As you can see things are pretty healthy, but not quite as good as we'd like. In some places in the Far East the local police are clamping down on anything that’s considered immoral. It's the Islamic revival, you see. We had to close a few of our joints down before anyone poked their noses in too far."
"But elsewhere you are in no actual danger from the authorities?" asked the Frenchman.
"No, they don't suspect a thing. A lot of the big shots are customers of ours, anyway. They're in it too deep to let it be exposed. It's the same most places, these days. And if any of our bitches did talk you can be sure they wouldn't stay alive for long. Couple of them at the bottom of the canal already."
His companions nodded appreciatively. "Well, we've liked everything we've seen," said the Russian.
"Is it possible to meet the guy who's in overall charge of your outfit? I'd prefer to be sure that any deals we make will be authorised by him."
"That is fine, Mr Fitch. I'll fix you to have a word with the boss."
"Here or in Saudi? I'd have to go out there anyway, to take a look at the girls."
"It seems reasonable. I'll give him a call later on today, see what he thinks. I expect he'll be amenable."
Edward sat back in the sumptuous leather-lined armchair. "Well, gentlemen, if our business is concluded for the time being, perhaps you'd like a little relaxation." He nodded towards the two young women, one blonde and one brunette, who had appeared in the doorway. Both wore strapless, backless dresses designed to give an enticing hint of the delights that lay beneath them. They were model quality, just the wrong side of thirty but losing nothing in beauty or poise because of it.
They came forward, swaying seductively as they crossed the floor to take up position on either side of the table, each with a hand resting on it.
The souteneurs got up and followed the girls from the room. Edward watched them go with a slightly wistful expression. After they had gone he remained sitting in the armchair for some minutes, before finally rising with a sigh and looking round for something else to do while he kept the deception going.

The thought of his holiday had calmed the Major's turbulent brain, and he had managed for the moment to keep hold of his sanity.
He felt the pull of the places where he had spent time, and been happy, as a boy and as a young soldier. So he took the car and drove twenty miles out of London, bound for the district around Aldershot.
The Major liked that part of the country, because of his personal associations with it and the fact that it was steeped in military history. For a whole day he wandered about the area. He started in Farnborough, strolling down the seemingly endless Queens Avenue into Aldershot. On the way he stopped to look at the rump of the old Connaught Hospital and saunter for a bit around the Military Museum, a nicely laid out affair deserving of a much larger building.
He visited all the spots he had known as a young officer, the pubs and cafes he and his friends had frequented and the parks he had strolled in, finding out what was still there and what wasn't. He stood and stared across the road at the house that had once been a brothel and which he'd patronised a few times, as had many young men on their rites of passage, and wandered through his old barrack buildings, now empty and condemned. The ghostly laughter of old comrades seemed to echo through the abandoned corridors.
It was a shame so many of those places had been demolished. The Army was moving out of the town now, taking with it much of its prosperity and also its soul.
All the time, he tried to keep the matter which had lately been tearing him apart out of his mind. But it was no good.
While he was trudging along the Basingstoke Canal towards Frimley, a woman came past him. She was petite, with strawberry-blonde hair and pleasant, rather elfin features.
He started, and turned sharply towards her. Their eyes met. Then he smiled apologetically and walked on.
God, for a moment he had thought...
But reason told him it couldn't have been.
He wondered how many more Gillians he would see in the years ahead.
She's gone, he told himself. Gone forever. Put her behind you.
You'll go mad if you don't.
I can't.
People were so precious, he thought. For their physical characteristics, their skills, their individuality, their goodness. In Gillian's case all that was gone, incinerated in a fraction of a second; reduced to a cloud of ash and vapour drifting in the skies above New York.
Bastards.
As far as everyone knew, due to his efforts to keep the matter secret, Gillian had been no more than a fleeting fancy. They could not have the slightest idea how much he had loved her.
There'd been other woman who he had thought he might become seriously involved with: Caroline Kent. Wherever she was now. He'd heard the news of her disappearance, and it had hardly made him feel better.
Caroline was like him in some ways, and yet unlike. That was what attracted him to her. But even supposing she got out of whatever mess she was in, she wasn't Gillian. He couldn't love another woman as much as he had loved Gill; he knew that.
He found a bench and sat down to watch the world go by. A woman came into his line of vision, again not dissimilar to Gillian in looks but this time with a man of roughly her own age, a husband or boyfriend. Two little children, a boy and a girl, were scampering around their feet. The boy tripped and fell, got up. The mother bent down to wipe the dirt from his shoes and trousers, a loving smile on her face. She hoisted him up into her arms, beaming down at him indulgently, and walked on to join her husband and daughter.
Oh Jesus Christ, no.
Suddenly losing control he slammed his fist against the arm of the bench, shouting out in fury. Nearby a couple of children abruptly stopped their playing and drew away, looking uneasily at him over their shoulders. A strolling couple came to a sudden halt and the man stared hard at the Major.
"Don't make a habit of that, mate," he warned, his voice low and threatening. After a moment he walked on. The Major cursed inwardly, both angry and embarrassed.
If his superiors in the Army should find out about his personal demon and how it was affecting him, he knew what they would think. That he was unfit for active service. You don't have officers who are suffering a nervous breakdown, who perhaps may even be mentally unsound. At best, he would be too emotionally involved; his eagerness to catch their enemy would cause him to make mistakes, jeopardizing not just the success of the operation but also the lives of his soldiers. They'd be convinced he would crack and mess everything up.
But Major Michael Hartman, formerly of the Royal Oxfordshire Regiment and now of the Special Air Services, knew that he wouldn't.
If they threw him out or retired him to some administrative job he wouldn't be able to stand it. The Army was his life.
On second thoughts, he wasn't sure it mattered to him that much anymore. You served in the Army because you thought the world was a good place, despite its faults, with things in it that needed to be protected from those who would destroy them. He didn't feel a world without Gillian in it was worth fighting and perhaps dying for. It couldn't possibly be.
His mind went back to when, as a child, he first became interested in things military. How once he'd wanted to see the Air Show and cried because he couldn't.
He so much wanted to see the planes. One day his parents took him to the Show as a special treat. He had come home so happy, such wonder and delight in his face at the planes, so big and grand and fast, and the soldiers in their smart uniforms marching up and down.
The childish memory was suddenly too much. Again he felt the hot sting of the tears on his cheeks.
Eventually, the Major picked himself up off the bench and plodded wearily away.

"How's it going?" Margaret asked Edward as he returned home from the house near the airport, having bid the satisfied souteneurs goodbye.
"Absolutely fine, love. Absolutely bloody fine. We've got them taken in all right. The next step is going to see the big boss of the outfit at his den in Saudi. He's got some place right out in the desert, apparently. It looks like he's the chap old Hamid told us about."
"So you think he's got Caroline?"
"Maybe."
He stuck his hands on his pockets and swung round in an I'm-coming-to-get-you roll, performing a swaggering movement as he headed down the hallway to the living room. The dark glasses he was wearing completed the image.
"Don't overdo it," Margaret warned, sounding alarmed.
"Hmmm...you do realise that if this is going to work, I might have to actually do the business?"
"You mean..." Margaret told herself she shouldn't be that naive. "I see what you mean."
"If he suspects I'm in there for any other reason than the sleaze, he'll get suspicious and throw me out. Or worse. Besides, it's for our daughter's sake."
"I know that," said Margaret testily.
"It's a long time since I've done anything like that," he informed her.
"Good," Margaret said.
A worrying thought occurred to her. "What happens if they won't sell her?"
"Then we'll have to have a major rethink. But I can tell you, after all the money and effort I've put into this thing I'm not going to let her slip through my fingers."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Not at this stage, love, no. Just don't worry, that's all. Please."

Towards the end of the day, filled alike with happy memories and sad, the Major started walking back towards Farnborough. On the way he passed some of the modern barrack buildings. Their names and the plaques on their walls commemmorated the battles in which the regiments they housed had fought: Bleinheim, Ramillies, Oudenarde, Malplaquet. All battles in the War of the Spanish Succession, fought to stop Louis XIV's France from dominating Europe.
That had been such a different world. Between that struggle, and the one the West was now fighting against radical Islam, there was no contrast. Louis XIV had been vainglorious and arrogant but he was infinitely preferable to Osama Bin Laden. At least Louis seemed more a human being, his faults notwithstanding, rather than a man crazed by hatred and evil to a chilling degree. Bin Laden and his followers were motivated not by such things as dynastic glory but by a genocidal urge to destroy the West and its people, to annihilate its culture, or convert it to their own twisted version of the Muslim creed. In comparison the squabbles of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries seemed pointless and farcical.
Such conflicts had sometimes been long and bloody, including those involving Louis. Nonetheless, the Major thought wistfully, it had been possible in the old days to fight relatively brief, glorious (though that was still debatable) wars in which a decisive defeat was inflicted on the enemy. Conventional means were sufficient to do the job. Now the West was entangled in a very different kind of conflict, with a decentralised, elusive opponent who was not only difficult to catch but whose savagery and evil knew no bounds, respecting none of the codes of conduct which should govern warfare. The old methods, the old symbols, the old causes no longer stood you in good stead.
Somehow the new enemy must be defeated as the old ones had been. And for the Major, the enemy was bin Laden. But where was it?
Time and again Hartman's thoughts returned to that perplexing question. bin Laden wasn't in Afghanistan and so far there had been no trace of him in Pakistan either. Iraq? That could be ruled out straight away. There was no way Saddam Hussein would be so stupid.
Perhaps bin Laden had committed suicide as the West’s forces closed in on him and was lying dead somewhere in the wilds of Kashmir or the Khyber, while his followers fooled the world into thinking he was still alive, sending it on a wild goose chase.
If I could only meet him, face to face, the Major thought. Just once. Just once.

It was late in the evening and in the guest room at one of Saddam Hussein's numerous Presidential Palaces, situated near the centre of Baghdad, three men sat cross-legged on cushions on the floor laughing uproariously and gulping down mouthfuls of Saddam's favourite whisky, Johnnie Walker Black Label, straight from the bottle. From time to time they would slap each other heartily on the shoulder.
Two of the men were Saddam and Malcolm Speyler. The floor around them was littered with sheets of paper covered with complex diagrams over which the dictator and the scientist had been poring for hours, talking excitedly.
The third man was shortish and middle-aged with receding grey hair and an impressive beer belly. He was Sabri al-Banna, alias Abu Nidal.
He was reflecting with sad nostalgia on the times when he had been notorious, a figure of fear and hatred. Hazy images drifted through his drink-dulled brain of the operations he and his organisation had planned and carried out. The attack on the El Al ticket counters at Rome and Vienna airports, the La Belle disco bombing in Berlin which everyone had conveniently blamed on Colonel Gaddafi. The images horrified him but the fact of the attacks occurring, which was something different, did not. From that fact he drew a comfort as warm in his heart as the whisky flowing through him. They had not succeeded in destroying Israel and her enemies, in breaking their grip on Palestine, but they had given the Israelis a hard time and reminded them that their kind were still there.
His thoughts turned to one operation which had ended rather less successfully, the hijacking of an American airliner which was then flown to Athens where the crew and passengers were threatened with death. After protracted negotiations demands for the release of comrades imprisoned for their part in the glorious struggle against Zionism had been rejected and troops had stormed the plane and shot the hijackers dead. However the enterprise had not been quite a failure, because just before he died one of his men had knifed a stewardess in the throat and she had bled to death before she could be got to hospital. He'd made sure their time hadn't been entirely wasted.
Nidal had been unable to think of people like the stewardess as human beings, because that would only have got in the way of his doing what he had to do. Her death had to be regarded as an achievement, something which would make a point. They had to show they meant business and they couldn't do that if people didn't die. The death in its own small way had focused attention on the Arab-Israeli problem; if this bunch are going to so much trouble to kill people, to knife shoot or bomb as many as they can whenever the opportunity presents itself, there must be a reason for it. There must be something pretty powerful motivating them to do such things.
And that was why he couldn't regret the killing now. In his middle age, he liked to think that all the things he'd done in his youth had been worth it. That his time hadn't been entirely wasted.
Nidal looked round vaguely as the door was opened and an official showed someone into the room, nodding respectfully to Saddam. The visitor was Neghid Fouasi.
Saddam raised a hand in greeting. "Ah, Neghid my friend, how are you?" The official backed slowly out.
Fouasi beamed broadly, pleased as always by Saddam showing friendliness towards him. "Fine, just fine. It's all going well. Wish I could come and see you more often, but you know how it is. After some asshole tried to kill me I decided it was best to stay at home most of the time." On this occasion he had taken the risk of travelling because he had begun to worry that if too much time elapsed without personal contact between him and Saddam the dictator would forget about him.
"I understand, Neghid, don't worry," Saddam said.
Fouasi looked down at the diagrams strewn all over the floor. "How's it going?"
"We are making good progress, Neghid, good progress. And nobody knows what we are doing, nobody at all. In the morning we'll go and see how the project is progressing." He uncrossed his legs with some difficulty, and climbed unsteadily to his feet. "Will you excuse me, Neghid, I am very tired. I must get some sleep. I will see you in the morning."
Fouasi nodded. Saddam staggered towards the door, pausing to smile vacuously at Speyler and Abu Nidal. They too decided to pack it in, managing with an effort to stand up and follow their host from the room.
Joined by two of Saddam's bodyguards the four of them made their way down the corridor towards the stairs, with Saddam and Speyler talking and laughing drunkenly.
Fouasi didn't happen to notice, and his companions probably couldn't have done. But as they passed one of the doors on the right, it creaked open a fraction or two. And for just a moment before it closed again, the burning eyes of Osama bin Laden stared out at them.

FIFTEEN
Bin Laden was not pleased.
He ought, he supposed, to be grateful for Saddam Hussein's offer of sanctuary; but he was not, despite having the solace of his Koran and the company of a number of his most devoted followers.
Saddam himself was clearly regretting it. That was obvious from the coolness he displayed towards bin Laden and his followers when in their presence. He had little contact with them other than what was unavoidable.
That was of bin Laden's own choosing as much as Saddam's. He didn't like the sort of company Saddam tended to keep, shunning the rest of the rogue's gallery, as the West would regard it, that had been assembled in Baghdad. Abu Nidal was a man sunk in degradation and drunkenness, and his motivation had always been political rather than religious, although of course bin Laden shared his virulent hatred of Israel. Neghid Fouasi was if possible worse. Saddam himself might claim to be a devout Muslim, but only when it suited him. As for the Western infidel Speyler, who Saddam had recruited to help him with his current project, the merest thought of him aroused revulsion and anger in bin Laden. He had been outraged when one of the prostitutes Saddam engaged to pleasure the man had been sent to his room by mistake. She had actually eyed him temptingly for a moment before realising he was not the sort to be impressed by her charms and exiting with a look of undisguised contempt.
Apart from the indignity of being surrounded by dissolutes and unbelievers, decamping to Baghdad had also meant a considerable setback to his war against the West. Contact with his followers around the world had to be indirect, for Saddam had made him turn off his satellite phone so that his calls could not be traced to Iraq. Now he had more or less told him to stop it altogether; Hussein was clearly getting nervous. For bin Laden it was a maddeningly frustrating situation. Though he knew he remained a powerful psychological and spiritual force motivating his followers, he wanted to be involved directly with them in the jihad.
In some ways he felt he had reached the end of the line. The New York attacks had been his greatest coup, the crowning achievement of his life. There was no chance he could see of repeating that kind of thing, not in the immediate future. The West would be on its guard. Eventually, of course, that guard would slip as people became complacent again. Bin Laden had the patience to wait until then. But it was not sufficient to deal your enemy a single big blow occasionally, with nothing much happening in the meantime. That was why something even bigger had to be planned. And if you were talking something bigger than the New York bombings, you were talking Weapons Of Mass Destruction. Acquiring them was the next step for al-Qaeda. Only bin Laden was starting to wonder whether it would make any difference if they did.
There was one other thing that was troubling him, and it was altogether the most serious of his worries. When Saddam had told him what he had found in the ground, he had initially been incredulous. But then he had been shown the thing, and after that he could not deny its existence or ignore its possible implications. He had tried to live his life much as he had before - after all, his fears might turn out to be unjustified - but he couldn't banish from the back of his mind a constant, nagging unease. As a consequence, he was nowadays even more solemn and reflective than on other occasions in his life when he had been tested. Unfortunately it was not possible just yet for him to find out what he needed so urgently to know, despite his frequent badgering of Saddam, because it would mean Saddam having to do something which at the moment he was reluctant to contemplate. He knew he must curb his impatience and go on as in the past until he had the opportunity to learn the truth.
It was a time to reflect on his life so far; on the journey that had taken him from Saudi Arabia to the West and from there to Sudan, the wilds of Afghanistan, and finally Baghdad. He had no regrets. He was pleased that he had managed through strength of character and will to overcome his earlier promiscuous leanings, to do the right thing and embrace Islam. That was how he saw it, anyway. In truth, it had not been difficult. As was often the way with these things, a single incident had shown him clearly what he must do, although other things had been built on that foundation since then.
Tall, gangling, rather awkward and self-conscious, the young Osama had always been in the shadow of his more confident and outgoing elder brother, who always got the best of what life had to offer - and especially women. For a time Osama had himself frequented the fleshpots of Beirut, London, and Paris. However, a part of him always felt embarrassed and degraded by what he was doing. And then one day, a young American woman had made a remark that filled him with shame and anger. She had dared to laugh at what she considered to be his poor sexual performance.
Immediately every drop of bin Laden's blood had turned to solid ice. It had been a shocking but cathartic revelation. So this was what the West was really like. Fiercely, he vowed to turn his back on all its works. Why should he subject himself to such degradation when all he got out of it was to be ridiculed? If he wasn't any good at it, then all right, he wouldn't do it any more. He would change his whole lifestyle and beliefs, with a vengeance.
Vengeance would be the operative word.
Once he had sought and enjoyed the company, the very intimate company, of attractive blondes. Now the thought of such women filled him with contempt. A lot of them weren't real anyway, so he didn't see why he should get so excited about them. It was another aspect, he felt, of the deceit and falsity with which Western society was riddled. No; where the opposite sex were concerned let him have the houris, the dark-eyed virgins whose company the faithful would enjoy in Paradise, any time. The rest could go to hell.
All the same, in the last resort his dislike of Westerners wasn't really physical. The sight of blonde hair hanging free excited his anger and hatred, causing massive steel doors to slam shut around him, not because blondeness was abhorrent in itself but because it usually meant "Westerner", and as such was associated in his mind with immorality, promiscuity and decadence. They had no faith even in Christianity, so how was he to look on their rejection of Islam other than with anger and contempt? As for the political aspect, well the Western nations were democracies so surely their people could restrain their leaders from actions which were offensive or harmful to Islam. That they did not was clear proof of their guilt. His war was against a culture, a way of thinking, more than anything else.
He considered the time when his followers had massacred a party of Western tourists in Egypt, including a number of children. It was precisely because physical characteristics were irrelevant that he could sanction the death of a pretty blonde child. Some Arabs might be deterred by a sentimental attraction for such beauty, but such trivial considerations could not be allowed to obstruct the all-important crusade against the enemies of God.
In his moments of self-scrutiny, when he considered what it was that motivated him, he supposed that if his followers killed Western children they would not grow up into Western adults who, on past evidence, would defile the world with their immoral culture and seek to bring about the destruction of Islam. Perhaps it was sad things had to be that way, but he had long hardened himself against any inclination to feel regret. The Westerners had to be viewed as a plague because their society was corrupt, decadent and irreligious, a blight upon God's world. If they ended up in hell when he killed them, having lived dysfunctional lives blighted by divorce and other social evils, that was entirely their fault.
If Saddam's current project worked out, he would be rid of them forever. But if the thing in the ground was what it seemed to be, there would be no purpose in anything he might do. Ever.
He had to be sure.

SIXTEEN
Edward gazed down from the window of the plane's passenger cabin at the expanse of desert beneath him, in some awe at its majestic vastness. What kind of man must Fouasi be, to want to live out here like this, he wondered.
The previous evening he had received a telephone call instructing him to meet a representative of Fouasi's at Riyadh airport, from where he would be taken to the billionaire's private airfield on the outskirts of the city. The caller informed him that Mr Fouasi had offered to pay his travel fares, but he decided to graciously decline, guessing it would make a good impression.
He had thought it best to leave Margaret behind; apart from her indignantly expressed wish not to play the part of a "gangster's moll," the obvious resemblance between her and her daughter might set alarm bells ringing.
There were no other passengers on the plane apart from Fouasi's agent.
No more than half an hour after taking off, he caught sight of the vast gleaming palace, standing out whitely against the golden sands of the desert, and caught his breath.
The executive jet touched down on the landing strip, half a mile from the palace itself. Fouasi was there to meet him, along with a couple of his henchmen and a dark girl who might be his wife or on the other hand might be there purely for show.
The Egyptian greeted him cordially enough. He was one of the lads now, Edward supposed.
"Hey, Mr Fitch. You OK?"
"Fine thanks. A pleasant journey. Call me John."
"OK, John, let's go." They climbed into a little buggy powered by an electric motor and drove along a concrete road which terminated at a pair of ornate gates opening into the courtyard in which the palace stood. The buggy drove through the gates and up to the building, whose doors stood wide open. They alighted and went in, the minders all the time keeping within a few inches of himself and Fouasi. Did that mean Fouasi didn't really trust him, despite all the cordiality, or was it the natural instinct of someone in his line of business, who couldn't avoid mixing with people who were or might be dangerous?
On entering the palace Edward was taken aback by the opulence of his surroundings; the red damask furniture and hangings, the ornate columns, the elaborate calligraphy on the walls. No expense had been spared to make it just like an old-style Arabian palace.
He wasn't in the least uneasy at the company. The further he got into this the more comfortable he felt, because he knew it was working. Despite his fears for his daughter, he was enjoying the part.
The big worry, of course, would be when Caroline recognised him. He’d just have to take that as it came.
“Shall all we dine first, or do you want to get down to business?" Fouasi asked.
"Let's get the business out of the way so we can concentrate on the pleasure, eh?" Edward suggested. The Egyptian gave him a dirty grin.
On the way to Fouasi's study Edward glimpsed a number of girls, white girls, moving about. They seemed quite happy but there was something about the set of their faces that was too calm, too composed, and a certain faraway look in the eyes that made him shudder inwardly.
"Are you a Saudi yourself?" Edward asked Fouasi.
"Egyptian. Got connections in lots of other countries, though. You could say I don't really have a nationality. And you?"
"English. My father was German. Came over in the Second World War."
"Nice little place you've got out here," Edward observed. "No trouble with the neighbours, I imagine."
"There's some of those Bedouin assholes like to poke their noses in sometimes. If they give me any trouble I get the government on to them. Apart from that it's OK."
"I guess you don't spend all your time here?"
"I'm all over the fucking world. Got things to sort out in all sorts of places."
Fouasi thought it best not to tell him that someone appeared to be trying to kill him, forcing him to remain at the palace most of the time. It might be bad for business.
"Like this?" Edward gestured vaguely around them.
"Mostly. But I also sell guns and stuff to those people who need them. Don't take this personally, John, but you won't tell anyone about that if you know what's good for you."
"I understand."
By now they had reached the study. Fouasi gestured to him to sit down and poured them both a glass of Tia Maria. He took his place at the desk, directly opposite Edward.
"Right," said Edward briskly, signifying he wanted to begin the negotiating. "Before I state my price, I'd need to know how many girls you've got in all. Not just here, but everywhere. I want to make a realistic offer, one that won't leave you without any assets if you did decide to accept it."
Fouasi's dark eyes narrowed. "If you think I'd accept an unrealistic one you need your brain seen to, John my friend. Listen, our outfit is too big to bankrupt easily. I couldn't give you an exact figure for all the girls who pass through our hands. There's just too fucking many of them. We've got branches almost everywhere."
"Sorry, sorry, no disrespect intended. Just give me a rough estimate."
"It runs into millions."
Jesus, Edward thought. Fouasi noted his astonishment. "Yeah, that's how big we are."
"If I took several thousand of yours; just a few to start with, then the rest later on."
"That's OK by me."
"Is it all right if I pay for them in cash? I mean, it shouldn't be difficult to find more girls. And you'd have plenty of money to roll in while your stooges are looking for them. You could always use it to buy new stock. These days there's generally a good supply of it."
It was the moment Edward had been dreading. He suspected Fouasi would want to see his new purchases personally, to confirm the deal, here at the palace before a change-over could be made. Even had the girls existed, which they didn't, he wouldn't have wanted to condemn them to a life of sex slavery as the price of Caroline's freedom. But if he couldn't, the deal might be scuppered.
"Why do you want to pay in cash?" Fouasi asked suspiciously.
"Because we don't have as many girls as you do. A couple of our outfits got busted recently, as I told your representatives. No-one was able to finger us, but our network has been thrown into some confusion. It'll all get back together again somewhere else, in good time, and the money's safe. We've been careful to launder it several times over. And the shit who grassed to the police has been taken care of. But in the meantime, I'd rather not part with too much cash. Once the operation's up and running again I'll be able to make good any losses."
Fouasi considered this for a bit, then nodded. "All right, I guess it makes sense." Among other things, the money might come in useful to his friend in Baghdad. "Where were you thinking of taking the girls from? Here?"
"Well as I am here, I thought I might take a few at least."
Fouasi looked doubtful. "You're talking about the best of my stock. The girls here are for the exclusive use of my best clients."
On the other hand it was good to shuffle them around, to change the line-up once in a while. He'd make sure his personal favourites stayed where they were.
"It depends whether what you're offering is as good as what I've got," he said eventually. "I'm sorry, but if you're going to take from here then it'd need to be payment in kind."
"Your agents have seen the quality of the girls I employ. I'd be quite happy to send you a few of them, and if they don't want to go then that's just too bad."
Fouasi nodded his agreement. "OK then. The price is a thousand pounds for each girl. How many were you thinking of buying? There's a couple of hundred here."
"As it's your best stock we're talking about, and I don't think you're very happy about losing too much of it, only about a dozen." Edward had to be careful about bankrupting himself, or his venture would come to an early end.
"Do you want to take a look at them?"
"Sure." Edward scraped his chair back and stood up.
"It's OK, don't get up." Fouasi spoke into an intercom. "Blondie, get all the girls together downstairs, will you? Mr Fitch wants to check them out." He glanced at Edward. "There's a few away on a trip right now, but I could show you photos of them."
Edward had guessed Caroline wouldn’t be among them, because of special circumstances. "That's alright, I expect there'll be enough here to meet my requirements."
A few minutes later all the girls were standing before him in the harem, stark naked, smiling in that disturbing fashion as they showed off their wares. He pretended to inspect them carefully, and appreciatively.
None was Caroline. He was disappointed, of course, but not crushed; there were other places he might look for her. He managed not to let his feelings show.
He picked ten girls more or less at random. He pointed to them and the minders made them stand together some distance apart from the others. They were told to put their clothes back on and remain where they were until Edward's business with Fouasi was concluded and he was ready to leave with them. Once fake passports had been arranged for them, to replace the ones Fouasi's men had confiscated and destroyed, he would be able to fly them to the West.
Edward felt a thrill of satisfaction at having saved them. He could try to cure their drug addiction, find them respectable jobs in Britain. He might not succeed. But he had made a start.
They wouldn't talk about their experiences, of course. But he didn't want them to anyway, not just yet. It would jeapordise Caroline's safety, if she was still alive somewhere in the clutches of Fouasi's organisation.
He said he had decided after all to look at the photos of the girls currently on the junket, just in case. Again no luck.
He realised Fouasi was speaking. "Happy with your purchases, John?"
"Sure am. You've got other places, though, haven't you? In Lebanon, for one. I'd like to take a look at them."
Fouasi frowned. "Those aren't the up-market joints."
"But if I took a lot of girls in exchange for a reasonably handsome payment..."
Fouasi nodded vigorously. "Fine, John, fine. But right now I guess you'd like to have a little fun, yeah?" He indicated the remaining girls, who stood dutifully waiting for further instructions.
Edward smiled. "You bet I would."
He hoped he wouldn't acquire a taste for it. Since meeting his wife he hadn't felt any pressing need for extra-marital adventures, but a taste that had been lost could be reacquired after a certain amount of time had passed.
The key consideration was that he had to look the part. He had no idea how many pimps helped themselves to a share of the women under their control. Perhaps a lot of them didn't; not all drug dealers actually took drugs. It was the money, as much as the girls themselves, which attracted men to the business. Then again he could be wrong. He couldn't take any chances; he must think and be seen to act exactly how these pimps would, or they might suspect him.
"Well, you just choose," Fouasi said.
Edward's eyes rested on an attractive blonde with fine cheekbones, but she looked too much like Caroline and it didn't seem right. He selected a couple of the brunettes instead.
The experience was different from sex with Margaret, but unsatisfying: cold, mechanical, and emotionless. He was glad of that, because it meant he wouldn't be tempted to try it again.
He didn't ask for extras.
*
"So she wasn't there?"
Edward was back at the hotel in Riyadh. "No, I'm afraid not. I'm hoping she'll be at one of the other knocking shops he's got scattered around the world. Of course, it's always possible there's another outfit like his in business. Although mind you, everything I've been told suggests he's managed to collar the entire market."
They had to be optimistic, because being pessimistic didn't bear thinking about.
"I'll search every single brothel in the bloody world if I have to," Edward vowed with passion.
"What have you done about the other girls?"
"They're at the embassy and I'm trying to get them fixed up with British passports. They don't really understand what's happened, but there's a doctor with them trying to help. I've told them I'm willing to pay to make damn sure they find a job where they don't have to open their legs to the scum of the earth every day."
"Do you think it'll work?"
"I think some of them will respond, at least. All with any luck. In the first place, they got involved because they needed money, not out of love."
He took off his jacket and sat down. "Not a bad day's work, all in all."
"I suppose I needn't ask whether you - "
"I did," he announced solemnly. "But I think I can say with total conviction that our marriage is safe."
"So what happens next?"
"In a couple of days the girls I bought will arrive back home. Once they're out of it, safe from any trouble we might cause, we're going to check out Fouasi's joints in Lebanon. There's only one or two, the sex industry there is still finding its feet again after the war. He's rung ahead and they know we're coming. The thing is, from what he told me we wouldn't be looking at the best of his stock. That means he'd be more willing to part with it. But Caroline would count as one of the best. Let's face it, our girl is a stunner. I would have expected to find her at the palace, but I didn't. It's been bothering me a bit."
"It's worth a try," Margaret sighed.
"Yes, love. It's worth a try." He paused and looked at her. "I may need your help if I'm to pull it off."
"Why?" Margaret asked, nervously.
"Because when she sees me, she may give the game away, mightn't she?" It was the one big flaw in his plan.
"So what do you want me to do?"
He outlined to her what he had in mind, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
*
Their impressions of Beirut were much the same as Caroline's had been. Sprawling, chaotic, a bizarre mixture of East and West.
They flew in early in the morning, having already chosen a hotel and booked their room. They had told Fouasi they would be checking out the first of his establishments early in the afternoon of the next day, having some other business to transact first. They needed some time to draw up their contingency plans. Once the arrangements were complete, they decided to do a bit of sight-seeing.
In terms of layout Beirut was a complete and utter mess, as it was in other respects. In amongst the high-rise flats and modern apartment blocks they found orange groves and beautifully-preserved Ottoman houses draped with climbing plants, with a row of decrepit hovels only a street or so away. They walked down the Rue des Phoeniciens, where Edward had been told most of the brothels used to be. Here the scene was one of decaying grandeur, the still imposing facades of former restaurants showing bricked-up doorways and boarded-up windows. Some of the buildings were clearly under renovation, enshrouded in scaffolding with workmen busy repairing the cracked stucco and repointing pock-marked brickwork.
They had a meal in an English-style pub, of which there seemed to be quite a few in Beirut, then took a trip up the coast to Jounieh, currently the entertainment capital of the country although Beirut was beginning to regain its former prominence. Down a narrow alleyway they found a bar between two buildings where they had a drink and listened to the live band. It occurred to Edward that the decor was much like that of a traditional harem, with red damask sofas and armchairs, fluted columns and golden Arabic calligraphy on the walls. He found the resemblance disturbing.
By the time they left the bar it was getting dark and the city was a forest of flashing lights and neon signs. Margaret seemed uncomfortable but Edward wanted to explore a bit further. They agreed she would take the taxi back to the hotel and he would rejoin her later. He kissed her goodbye, finished his drink and began wandering around.
There seemed to be scores of stripshows, hostess clubs, cabarets and "Supernightclubs", as there had been in Beirut. As he passed one such establishment a number of Western girls emerged from it and congregated on the pavement chatting volubly. A car pulled up nearby, one of those huge multi-wheeled models which are really luxury coaches, and they headed towards it. He noticed that the windows were darkened.
Hands in his pockets, he sauntered about the streets breathing in the scent of bougainvillea that drifted to him on the cool night air. He felt safe - street crime was at a pretty low level in Lebanon - but not in any way relaxed. He was thinking, of course, about Caroline.
Was his daughter here somewhere amid this bewildering, disorientating neon jungle? Surely not, it would be too noticeable. Most likely her place of captivity was in the poorer parts of the city that were still recovering from the war. If so, how long would it take to find her?
They'd already spent a great deal on this. Hiring the house near Heathrow and engaging the services of the high-class call-girls who were needed to give the whole thing credibility, paying Fuller and the other actors for their part in things, the acting lessons he had himself taken to ensure his performance was convincing; it had all cost money and they were running out of it.
If he didn't find Caroline soon, he might have to give up the whole thing. He certainly wouldn't be able to buy many more girls. And if he searched all the remaining brothels without making any purchases Fouasi would get suspicious.
On a whim, he made for a slightly dodgy-looking place where he found himself looking up at a well-endowed blonde girl gyrating about a pole while performing a slow, seductive striptease to the accompaniment of Oriental style music jazzed up with synthesisers. He normally found Oriental music pleasant in an eerie, haunting kind of way. This was disturbing, sinister; he would almost have said evil.
He decided he had seen enough. Putting down his unfinished drink he headed straight for the exit, failing to register the faint look of contempt on the face of the girl in halter top and hotpants who stood leaning against the wall nearby, her arms folded.
He wanted to be back in bed at the hotel as soon as possible. There was much to do tomorrow.
*
The effects of the war on the city were still all too visible as they drove east towards the first of the brothels on their list. It set both of them thinking.
No-one quite knew how the civil war in Lebanon had started, nor did they understand why it had just as suddenly ended, unless it was because of simple fatigue combined with Syrian intervention. Something told Edward the new era of peace and prosperity wouldn't last. The rising tide of Islamic fundamentalism could well upset things. Quite possibly the Israelis would mess it all up by some brutal military intervention of the sort they tended to go in for.
They passed through an area which resembled a vast building site, every house surrounded by scaffolding. Every couple of minutes the car had to swerve to avoid a bulldozer parked across the road, or a nasty-looking puddle of some unidentifiable substance. There were pockets that the reconstruction programme had not yet touched and where the houses were gaping shells or had disappeared entirely, leaving a sea of rubble where whole streets had been. Their surroundings were a reminder that most Lebanese had a poor standard of living. The streets were littered with rubbish and the flat-roofed colonial style buildings had all seen better days. Some had been partly demolished, and the remainder were peppered with shell-holes and riddled with bad cracks. The brickwork, the peeling stucco facing through which it could be glimpsed, the pavements and the roads were all dirty, and the gardens overgrown.
Stunted children with pinched faces played among the rubbish. An elderly dog, mangy and emaciated, defecated into the gutter. You expected something sordid to happen at any time; certainly if a prostitute had come into view around the corner at that moment she would not have looked out of place.
"Oh Ted, I don't like it here," shuddered Margaret.
Edward ignored her, but he didn't begrudge her her fears. It had been into a maze of little streets just like these that John McCarthy and Terry Waite, to name just two, had vanished. All that business was over now, hopefully for good, but all the same he couldn't shake off a strange haunting sense of unease.
Gradually, their surroundings became a little more salubrious. In a short while they had reached their destination. The plain, square, block of a building was set back from the road inside a walled courtyard. It looked marginally more respectable than those around it, but its white paint was a little shabby and the curtained windows needed cleaning. A lower-class brothel, for those Lebanese who weren't able to afford the delights of Jounieh or the still prosperous parts of the capital. No doubt as prosperity returned its inhabitants would be moving into more palatial accommodation.
The hired car pulled up to the kerb a few feet from the entrance. With a smile to his wife, Edward got out and crossed the courtyard to the big wooden door.
He caught sight of someone peering out at him through one of the ground floor windows, and as he reached the door it was opened and a man stood there, looking him up and down. "Mr Fitch?"
"That's me," he said genially. They shook hands.
"Would you like something to drink?"
"No, that's OK. I'd like to get down to business, if I may."
The man nodded curtly. His name as it happened was Max but he didn't introduce himself to Edward. He seemed to be of mixed European and Arab ancestry. He ushered Edward in, and the Englishman found himself in a narrow hallway with several doors on either side. The brothel wasn't much cleaner internally than it was externally. The wallpaper was faded and peeling; the carpet threadbare, covered in fluff and loose in places.
He followed Max down the passage to a carpeted staircase. "How many girls you got here, then?"
"About forty. Mostly rejects from our better establishments."
"Why were they rejected?"
"Some of them are just worn out. There's still people who'd pay for them, of course. Others have been stupid and tried to escape."
Which is what Caroline would have done, Edward thought.
"This place is their punishment," Max told him.
"How is it a punishment?" Edward asked, trying to sound as if he were just curious rather than some kind of social worker.
"You'll have guessed, John my friend, that this place isn't like some top joint in London or Paris. Surely it's the same in your outfit; if they misbehave you have to punish them."
"What will happen to them eventually?" Edward couldn't stop himself asking the question.
"When they're too old or too ill to do the job, then we throw them out on the fucking streets. Or dump them in the river." He seemed a little suspicious, and Edward realised he should be careful. He told himself he had no proof Caroline was actually here.
At the stairs they turned right, and he saw there were a number of doors in one wall of the passage, each with a number and the name of the girl within, probably made up, in English and Arabic. You could see where old names had been removed and new ones put in their place.
Max unlocked the door of the first room. "I'll wait outside," he said. Edward opened the door and went in, to be confronted by a row of four or five wooden partitions with curtains stretched between them. He peered inside the first cubicle and saw a simple bed consisting of just a mattress with a single sheet over it. Otherwise the cramped little compartment was bare, except for a drum-shaped receptacle in one corner which he guessed served as a toilet, and a washbasin.
The girl lying underneath the sheet jumped up as soon as she heard the curtain drawn back and stood beside the bed in knickers and bra, looking at him expectantly. Since she wasn't Caroline Edward stepped back and pulled the curtain into place. He heard the girl climb back onto the bed and turn over onto her side.
He checked all the other cubicles, and then the other rooms, making sure he took some time over it in order to allay any suspicions Max might have. No Caroline.
"No?" Max enquired as he emerged, noting the disappointed look on his face.
"I'm afraid not. Are there any more upstairs?"
"This way," Max replied, ushering him on. They came to the flight of stairs they had passed earlier, and ascended it to the top floor, the treads creaking mournfully under their feet.
The floor was divided into two halves by a corridor running its whole length, with a dozen rooms on either side. Edward proceeded to check the rooms as before, finding the same arrangement of curtained compartments each with its solitary occupant. All the girls had the same vacant, zombie-like look about them.
He'd searched about half of them when Max commented, "you haven't had much luck so far."
"I'll make my choice when I've seen them all," Edward grunted, trying to hide his mounting concern at not having found his daughter.
"All right."
He noticed there was a square of red paint on the door of the next room. "What does that mean?" he asked.
Max had been about to move him past it. "Special circumstances. They're not to be moved from here, I'm afraid."
"Why's that?"
"It would cause a little trouble, you know, if anyone found out we'd got them," said Max with a sly grin.
"I'm sure you could rely on me to preserve confidentiality. We're in this together now, aren't we? Don't you trust me?" Edward did his best to sound indignant.
Max was looking uncertain. Edward decided that if he wasn't allowed to see the girls he would assume one of them was Caroline. Then the pimp, still looking doubtful, unlocked the door and opened it. Edward went in and stepped over to the first cubicle. He slid back the curtain and stared at the girl who lay on her side on the bed, naked, her arms folded and her head turned away from him. Her blonde hair was matted and looked dull and lifeless.
She didn't stir as he entered the cubicle and stood over her. Stooping down, he took her by the shoulder and gently turned her onto her back.
He almost didn't recognise the pale, gaunt face which stared up at him with wide, shining eyes that seemed only vaguely aware of his presence.
Caroline's body was thin and fleshless like a drug addict's and her skin was an unhealthy yellow colour, with blotches here and there that could only have been made by some sort of disease. She could have been ten years or more older.
All the way down her back ran a series of faint red lines that sometimes crossed over one another. They were scars; faded a little but unmistakeably scars. And on one cheek he saw an ugly purple bruise.
She blinked up at him, and muttered something incoherent and barely audible. A rivulet of saliva suddenly welled from the corner of her mouth and trickled down to her chin.
Edward Kent stood looking down at his daughter in speechless horror. He felt moisture start to form in one eye. Then suddenly the anger flared up in him, uncontrollably. "BASTARDS!"
Standing just outside the door, Max heard the cry and gave a startled jump. After a moment his face darkened, its muscles drawing tight. In an instant his hand was on the knob pulling the door open.
As soon as the word left his lips Edward knew he'd blown it. He didn't waste any time.
There was a chair in the room for clients to hang their clothes on. Grabbing it, he smashed it against the wall with all his strength. One of the legs snapped off, splintering where it had joined the seat into sharp jutting points. In the same instant Max came flying in. "What's up? What's going on?" he demanded.
Edward snatched up the broken-off chair leg and thrust the splintered end with savage force into Max's stomach. Max screamed in agony and crumpled, his hands flying instinctively to the wooden spar jutting from his belly. Shrieking hysterically, he tried to pull it out but the strength was already going from him. Blood ran copiously from between his fingers. He keeled over and slumped against the wall.
Edward pulled out his mobile and called his wife. "All right, Maggie!" he shouted. Already from downstairs he could hear shouts and sounds of people running about in alarm.
Two other pimps, called Kass and Emil, were making towards the stairs when they heard one of the ground floor windows shatter, followed by a "whoosh" as something caught fire. They stopped and stared at one another. "What the fuck's going on?" shouted Kass.
"I'll go and see. You look upstairs!" Emil ran into the little downstairs office and immediately skidded to a halt, jumping back with a cry of alarm. A section of carpet just in front of him was on fire, the flames licking upward hungrily.
Something came flying through another of the windows and burst on the desk amid a pile of papers. He scrambled away as the flames lashed out at him.
Outside, Margaret Kent was hurling petrol bombs with savage determination and surprising skill at all the ground-floor windows. She stopped to pick up another milk bottle, filled with a rolled-up newspaper, struck a match and lit it.
Emil flung open the door and rushed out. He saw the car, and in the same instant Margaret saw him. Unsure of his intentions, she decided not to take chances and raised the Molotov to throw it at him. With a scream of fear he turned and ran back inside the building. Margaret flung the petrol bomb through the broken window, and a second later heard the sound of shattering glass followed by a satisfying "whoomph" as something ignited.
In the upstairs room Edward pulled out the chair leg from Max's stomach. It came free with a ghastly sucking sound, its end covered in the pimp's blood. Max's cries had turned to low, choking moans and his eyes were glazing over.
Edward someone run up the stairs at full speed. Kicking aside the dying Max, he ran to stand by the door, the chair leg in one hand. The door burst open and immediately Edward struck with his improvised weapon, cracking Kass viciously over the head. The pimp staggered and fell to his knees, dropping the handgun with which he'd been armed. Edward crowned him a second time and the pimp toppled over, landing heavily on his side. He stirred feebly but didn't get up. Edward snatched up the pistol and pocketed it.
Christ, they had guns. He hadn't banked on that. It looked like he might have to shoot his way out.
It occurred to him he couldn't carry Caroline and point a gun at the same time. Somehow he'd have to make sure the other goons were taken care of before coming back for her. If they had guns too, he'd be outnumbered.
Unless there was a way down to the ground from the top floor, and if there wasn't he would merely waste time looking for it.
He'd have to take a chance.
"Come on, let's get you covered up," he said, more to himself than to Caroline as he doubted she could hear him. Quickly he wrapped the bedsheet around her and scooped her up in his arms. Stepping over Kass, he hurried from the room with his burden. She felt horribly light, barely more than skin and bone. From downstairs he could hear the hungry roar of the flames.
Margaret had by now run out of milk bottles. But by now, the fire was spreading with alarming speed. She'd already seen Emil come hurtling round the corner of the building, through the gates and down the street.
Edward was carefully descending the stairs with Caroline cradled in his arms. He reached the bottom to find a wall of flame blocking the way to the main door.
There had to be another way out, he guessed. Moving as fast as his burden permitted, he went in search of it.
A few moments later Kass came lurching down the stairs, still a little dazed. He stumbled and almost collapsed. He felt the heat of the fire, registered the flames licking from underneath the door of the office and the smoke billowing towards him. It brought him back to his senses.
He took in the situation, and knew what he should do. The fire already raging would provide adequate cover.
He ran down the corridor to a little storeroom where, after a minute or so's frantic scrabbling, he found a can of oil and a box of matches. Running back to the foot of the stairs, he emptied some of the oil over the first few steps, then struck a match, stood well back and flung it. The spreading patch of black liquid erupted into flame. Then he ran hell-for-leather for the side door which was the one remaining exit.
He knew that in their stupor the drugged girls would be unable to escape.
Waiting anxiously beside the car, Margaret saw flames and smoke coming from several of the windows. Edward came running into view, a white-clad figure cradled in his arms. Margaret's heart missed a beat.
She hurried forward to meet them. "Is that - "
"Yes, it's her," he answered gruffly. Margaret gave a cry of sheer joy and almost fainted.
"But just look at her. What have they done to her?"
"Come on, we'd better get her to hospital. Have they gone?"
"I think so."
At that moment Kass appeared. Ignoring them, he made for a battered Renault parked against the wall of the building. They supposed he didn't want to hang around; the fire would shortly begin to attract attention. In fact Margaret had already called the emergency services, realising apart from anything else that it'd look better with the authorities.
The Renault's engine coughed and spluttered into life. The car's ancient frame gave a shrill squeak of protest, and it swung round and shot off through the gates to roar away down the dusty street.
"There's one back there who won't be giving any trouble," Edward told her. Margaret stared at him, troubled by his words and the tone in which they were said.
"Tell you all about it later. Right now we've got to put that fire out."
"I've rung the fire brigade. But what are we going to say happened?"
"We'll just have to tell them the truth." They got Caroline into the car, laying her carefully on the back seat. Edward seated himself behind the wheel, Margaret already strapping herself in beside him. He started the engine.
As the car drove away Edward glanced back at the brothel. Every window was now a burning red eye and the smoke was rising higher and higher. People had gathered in small groups to stare at the blazing building and at the car as it raced off into the distance. Just before turning back to concentrate on the road ahead, he saw several run off to fetch help.
*
"Here we are," said the orderly, showing Edward and Margaret into the little private ward where Caroline lay in bed with her eyes closed, for the moment quite unconscious. She looked very pale and very ill.
As Edward stood looking down at her, at the yellow hair spread out against the pillow, an image came to him of the same girl some twenty-five years before, asleep with her blonde head standing out vividly against the surrounding whiteness and her arms clasped protectively around her teddy bear.
He turned to the capable-looking middle-aged woman standing beside the bed. "So, how is she?"
"Well, I would be very surprised if she is not addicted considering the amount of the drug that was pumped into her. I feared she might have AIDS, or something almost as bad, but she doesn't. Obviously those holding her were fairly careful to avoid any possibility of infection. All the same, she's very lucky. There's nothing there that can't be cured - depending on her strength of will."
Edward squeezed Margaret's hand. "She'll make it," he said softly. "I'll know she will."
The doctor smiled. "I'm Sarah Chamoun." She looked again at Caroline. "We've got as much of it out of her as we can." Along with another kind of substance, one that might be described as of male origin, although Dr Chamoun didn't like to mention it. "I don't think much progress will be made until she wakes up. She cannot fight it while she is unconscious."
"And physically?" Edward asked. "She looks...she looks awful." Chamoun sighed. "Basically, she's been beaten, raped, tied up – frequently - and pumped full of drugs. In fact, they did everything to her that's physically possible. I don’t think you want the exact details."
"No thanks," said Edward disgustedly. The horrifying images were rushing into his mind, sickening him. Suddenly he exploded with rage, turning on Chamoun as if she were the guilty party. "I swear that when I find out who has done this to my daughter I will kill them. Do you understand? First I will break every bone in their body and then I will..."
His voice tailed off and he looked a little ashamed. "Sorry. Not much sense in taking it out on you."
Chamoun had recovered her composure almost immediately. She was used to patients' relatives flaring up at her for one reason or another. She smiled to show she understood.
Margaret had seated herself by the bed and was clasping Caroline's hand, weeping softly.
"What can we do about all those scars? I want her back the way she was. Right back. Can you do that?"
"Yes; with the correct treatment, over a long enough period of time, it can be done. But if you want the best results, and quickly, you will have to pay for it."
"We've got the money," said Edward.
"I'd be surprised if it didn't leave some kind of lasting damage, though. Mental or physical."
"She's a tough cookie," he replied, his voice breaking slightly. "She'll make it."
He bent down and kissed Caroline tenderly on the forehead, as he had done all those years ago to the little girl in her bed with her teddy bear.
The action seemed to wake Caroline up. She moaned and shifted position, her blinking eyes struggling to focus. Incoherent noises came from her throat, struggling to transform themselves into words. The three of them moved to stand around her.
Slowly she sat up. "Mum? Dad?" She sounded surprised more than anything else. "What are you doing here?"
"You're in hospital, love," her father answered. "And we've come to visit you."
"In hospital?" she frowned. "Why?"
The look of puzzlement on her face grew deeper. "Have I...have I been asleep?" Her voice was slurred but intelligible. "I dreamt...I dreamt..."
"No dream, I'm afraid lass," said her father grimly.
Caroline stared at him blankly. Then her expression changed as the memories suddenly began to break through.
In a series of dizzy fits understanding came. She gave a shrill cry in which joy was mixed with a kind of disbelief. It tailed away in a whimper, and then she was crying tears of sheer happiness and relief. Her face crumpled, the lips drawing back from the teeth until her expression had totally changed and it was like looking at a stranger. Margaret leaned over and embraced her, rocking her gently backwards and forwards. Caroline seemed not to know she was there. She just went on sobbing, trying unsuccessfully to get her words out properly. Edward stood in the background, waiting his turn.
Gently Margaret released her. When she finally managed to speak her voice was little more than a faint whisper. "Do you know...do you know what they did to me?"
"Yes, the doctor told us. It wasn’t very nice, was it?"
"How could they...how could they do something like that?" she said angrily, almost shouting. "I knew...I knew it happened, but..."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"N-n-no," she stammered. "I don't think I ever will."
"How do you actually feel, darling?" Margaret asked.
"Weak," Caroline replied. "So weak..."
"Do you want us to leave you for a while?"
"No." She looked Margaret straight in the eye. "Please don't go. Please."
"All right, dear."
"How did I...I mean, what happened?" Her voice was clearer now. "How did I get out of..."
"I rescued you," Edward said, smiling proudly. "That's how."
"Oh, Dad," said Caroline.
"With a little bit of help from your mother, of course," he added with a grin, noticing Margaret's indignant expression.
Again the moisture filled Caroline's eyes, blinding her so that she couldn't see her parents. "Thankyou...oh, thankyou..."
"That's OK, sweetheart," Edward smiled. "Here, let's give you a cuddle." He took her in his arms.
At once her face changed, freezing with fear. With a gasp she broke violently free from him and shrunk away, as if in some kind of reflex action.
Screaming hysterically, she pounded on her father's shoulders and clawed at his face. "Get off! Get off! Get off!" Hurriedly he withdrew, looking puzzled and not a little hurt. Quite unaware that he had gone, Caroline continued to scream and claw at the air, thrashing about with such fury that the bed rolled backwards and forwards, its springs creaking.
Gently Dr Chamoun drew him aside. "After everything she has experienced during the last few months she cannot bear to be touched – in any sense – by a man. It is associated for her with rape. It would be better if you avoided physical contact for the time being."
Edward's heart sank. "How long will this last?"
"People do get over it." He nodded, but felt the anger rise within him once again.
Eventually Dr Chamoun managed to calm Caroline, taking her gently but firmly by the hands and talking soothingly to her. As she stepped back Edward moved cautiously towards her, his hand held out, ignoring the doctor's warning look. Caroline eyed him uncertainly. "Come on; I'm your father, I'm not going to hurt you."
He stood by the bed, keeping his hand extended. "Please," he begged.
"I-I-I-I-I c-can't," she answered miserably.
Edward saw he should give in. "All right, sweetheart, I understand," he said gently. "Is it all right if Mum does it?"
Caroline hesitated, thinking of Blondie, then nodded silently. Margaret Kent took her daughter in her arms again, crooning softly. "Oh, my darling. My baby."
Edward saw the corners of his daughter's mouth twist as her emotions overcame her once more. "Mum," she sobbed. "Mum. Mummy."
Edward looked on. He was deeply moved but at the same time felt fury that an adult woman so proud and independent should be reduced to a little child, as if her mind had been completely shattered.
Margaret let go of her and sat back. "There you are," she smiled. "I expect you feel better now you've had a good cry, don't you?"
Caroline smiled weakly. "Yes."
She was silent for a moment, apparently thinking. Then she started to laugh. She laughed long and loud and quite uncontrollably, her body shaking so much the bed started rolling about again.
"Are you all right, dear?" asked Margaret nervously.
Caroline's laughter alternated with frenzied, staccato bursts of speech. The words were jumbled, mostly incoherent, and what they could make out was so bizarre as to be disturbing. The look on her face was equally strange and there was an unnerving gleam in her eyes. Alarmed, Edward turned to Dr Chamoun. "Is she..."
The doctor considered, studying Caroline carefully. Then she came to a decision. "No," she said firmly, as Margaret made towards her again. "It is best to leave her alone. I think it is a delayed reaction to the joy of finding herself free. I suspect it was probably inevitable. It may even be necessary if she is to recover fully."
"How long will it last?"
"I believe it will pass soon. We can only wait and see."
Caroline's laughter died away, and as they watched her eyes closed and her head fell back onto the pillow. She lay perfectly still, except for the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The sound of her breathing was almost inaudible.
"We should leave her now," whispered Dr Chamoun. She went with them to the door. Margaret paused on the threshold to look back at Caroline, obviously reluctant to leave.
"Come on," said Edward, hastening her on gently with a hand on her arm. "She's in good hands."
"I think the very fact of finding herself here, knowing she was out of that dreadful place, was a major boost," Dr Chamoun told them. "She's made a good start."
"Well, thanks for everything, doctor." Edward shook Chamoun's hand. "You know where to contact us, at the hotel. Come on, Maggie, let's be going. We'll call in again in a couple of days."
When they returned to the hotel, they found two representatives of the local police waiting for them in the lobby.
The emergency services had arrived too late to save the brothel's inmates. By the time they got there the roof of the building had already collapsed into the blazing furnace below. All the fire services could do was extinguish the conflagration and then carry out the charred, unrecognisable bodies, which would be identifiable only from dental records.
It was obvious what they had here. Unfortunately the fire had destroyed any evidence of who was running the place.
As the full story of what had taken place emerged, it became clear that what Edward and Margaret had told the police was true. The couple were eventually released without charge. Their argument that if they had tried to resolve the matter through the normal channels those holding Caroline would have known they were coming, panicked and disposed of her tipped the balance in their favour.
Once they were back in their hotel room their thoughts turned to the holocaust in the Rue St Antoine, for which their escaping arrest was little consolation. "We did that," murmured Margaret. "Oh God...those poor girls..." Her lips trembled and her eyes were glistening.
"That wasn't us, Maggie," said Edward quietly. "Anyway, we had no choice. I'd do it again if I had to." It didn't make him feel any better. His only hope was that in their drugged state, and with the smoke probably knocking them out before the flames got to them, the girls had not suffered.
"Cheer up," he said brightly. "We've got our daughter back. Now have something to drink, and relax. Try not to think about it."
That evening, leaving Margaret at the hotel, he went for a drive round the city. Drawn by an irresistible compulsion, he drove into the Rue St Antoine, stopping the car outside the gutted ruin of the brothel. He got out and for a very long time stood looking at it sadly. In there had died dozens of poor unfortunate girls, the products of broken homes and the victims of a corrupt and degenerate world which preyed on the vulnerable and enslaved their minds and bodies to satisfy its greed for sex and money. Their short, sad lives had ended in choking black smoke and searing flame and now there was nothing left of them but charred corpses and heaps of ash.
How many, in all, had perished? How many had been true prostitutes, and how many from ordinary, decent, respectable homes who had been lured into a world of vice and violence, guilty of no sin except stupidity? Whatever their story, it had ended in a burning brothel. Squalor, degradation, misery, and then finally death in the fire, which he had been unable to prevent. Each demise was another tragedy that the world didn't need.
He felt reluctant to leave the place. He took a few steps up and down, buried deep in thought. He'd saved ten girls; he'd hoped it might be more but he'd come to the end of the line now. Ten girls. It was something; it was an achievement.
There wasn't much to be gained from hanging about here.
As he turned away he caught sight of a figure looking across the road at him from the doorway where it was huddled. It was a woman, with long lank hair hanging free, wrapped in a bundle of grubby rags. Her eyes and his met. Her expression was vaguely beckoning. For some reason Edward found himself walking slowly towards her, while she waited patiently for him to get there. As he approached he studied her more closely.
He stopped in front of her, peering keenly. Her skin was yellow and unhealthy-looking, the face seamed and wrinkled like an old woman's. The eyes, dull and lifeless, barely seemed to see him, although she was clearly aware of his presence.
Then Edward noticed the marking on her wrist and bent to examine it. A tattooed inscription. It read "YOU 4 ME ABBEYFIELD HIGH RULE OK."
He bent down, took hold of her and lifted her up. She struggled feebly for a moment, and he thought he heard a faint murmur of protest as he carried her to the car. She was light, pitifully light, like an empty paper bag.
He heard running feet accompanied by a furious shouting and screaming in Arabic, and a moment later felt hands plucking at his coat and beating him about the arms, body and shoulders. In front of him he saw an old woman's face, contorted in savage fury, eyes blazing. She tried to pull the girl from his arms, but his grip was too strong for her to break. She ran off yelling for help.
He opened the car door and placed the girl gently on the passenger seat, strapping her in. He got in and started the engine just as a crowd of shabbily-dressed people erupted into the street, appearing as if from nowhere and with astonishing speed. He reversed the car, turned it round and drove off at top speed, forcing them to scatter, yelling furiously after him as he disappeared from view.

When Caroline awoke, the room was in darkness. She felt well and happy, filled with a sublime sense of peace and security. The hysteria was out of her system, for the moment. Now she was safe and sound there was no reason for it.
She felt she had risen from the bottom of a deep black pit of misery and burst from it into wellbeing and sanity. She felt physically and emotionally exhausted but not in any way that was undesirable. The overriding sense was of a pleasant emptiness; everything was a clean slate from which she could start again.
From the street outside a little light seeped into the room through the gaps in the blind over one window. Faint sounds of people and vehicles moving about reached her ears. It seemed weird, but someone somewhere was playing a Beatles song; at least it sounded like the Beatles. Yes it was: Strawberry Fields.
She found herself humming the tune and smiling. Not for the first time she marvelled at the astonishing ability those four young men from Liverpool had had to find your heart-strings and pull on them. They'd a way of capturing the craziness, and the beauty, of ordinary life which failure to understand the often surreal lyrics made no difference to.
The song stayed in her mind until she drifted back to sleep, her mind filled with homely thoughts about life in a working-class district of a town in the north of England.
While her abused body recovered from all that had been inflicted on it, she stayed most of her time in the ward, though there were regular walks around the hospital garden where the fresh air and the scent of the beautiful flowers assisted her recuperation. The visits from her parents also helped, of course, and she was touched to receive scores of get-well cards from friends, relatives and other wellwishers.
Her physical injuries disappeared remarkably quickly, and at the same time she regained the weight she had lost.
When she had been brought out of the brothel, her hair had seemed to have faded, become lank and lifeless. Blondeness often did not survive a serious setback to health of the sort Caroline had suffered, but after a while it was back to its original colour and the doctors at the hospital swore she had not, to their knowledge, been using highlighter or peroxide.
This girl had something...but what it was they couldn't quite put their finger on. It was almost scary.
The mental damage was much harder to remedy. Sometimes she would wake in tears; then the nurse would sit and hold her hand and talk soothingly to her until she recovered her composure. She went through a period of delayed shock in which she sat and stared numbly at the wall, unable to think, say or do anything, until sheer hunger brought her out of it. Every now and then she would break down and cry just from the thought that she was safe.
All those hangovers would go away, in time, although she guessed she would never be able to think of her ordeal without a certain shudder. The real problem, of course, was her addiction to the drugs. It was serious because their effect had been to seem a merciful amelioration of her suffering, and her body still thought of them as something beneficial and desirable. She decided that where it wasn't doing its bit, she would have to enlist the aid of the mind.
So she found a scrap of paper and drew a picture of a heap of cocaine and beside it one of a woman, meant to represent herself, bound and gagged and chained and doing something revolting and obscene. She wanted to associate the two images as closely as possible in her mind. After all it was because of drugs that she had got into the whole horrific situation, even if she hadn't taken them herself, and become trapped in it. The one thing had led inexorably to the other. She stared at the two drawings intently until they blended together, the composite image burning itself deep into her brain. Even though the drawing upset her, she had to do it. The doctors and nurses were disturbed when they saw it, despite their training, but they appreciated that everyone had their own way of coping with such trauma as she’d been through.
Gradually, she found she needed the drug less and less. She still had relapses, of course. But it was evident that she was winning, and in a shorter time than it took to cure most addicts. Her recovery was due in equal measure to the treatment she was receiving, the therapeutic techniques employed, to her own brand of aversion therapy, and to a will to live so powerful that it penetrated deep into the subconscious mind, to levels not even the most powerful drug could reach.
One consequence of her treatment by the slavers was a revulsion at the thought of any sex other than within marriage; it seemed somehow dirty, degrading and repellent, even where there was consent. There would be none of that sort of thing for her, not for the foreseeable future. It wasn't an entirely logical reaction, but in the end there were worse things than celibacy, provided your mind and body were capable of it.
As time went by she realised there was something about the situation which particularly upset her. Her anger and distress at what had been done to her was made worse because she had had to be rescued; she hadn't got out of her horrendous predicament through her own efforts. What could be done about that she didn't know.
Meanwhile the actual details, the precise details, of what had happened to her while in Fouasi's hands had been completely forgotten, dissolving in her mind to a strange hazy blur. But gradually little snippets of memory started to filter back. It was a consequence of the drug and its effect on her brain that she didn't realise the significance of one of them until she'd remembered it for the third or fourth time, and then thought about it a little more.

Neghid Fouasi heard a knock at the door of his study. "Boss, it's me," called the Hulk. Impatiently Fouasi went to let him in.
"Morning, Boss," the Hulk said. "You read the papers?"
Fouasi nodded impatiently. He glanced again at the newspaper on the desk, with its front page article announcing the dramatic rescue of the missing Caroline Kent from the brothel in Beirut. It was accompanied by two photographs; one of the girl taken before her ordeal, and another showing her parents arriving at the International Hospital to visit her. Margaret Kent, and Edward Kent also known as John Fitch.
"What does it mean for us?" the Hulk asked worriedly.
"Not a lot. There's only their word and the girl's. They really need more witnesses, more evidence. When the father says how he fooled us by setting up his own fake outfit, and all that, it's gonna sound too fantastic. No-one'll believe it. And if it does come to the worst our friends in high places will still protect us."
Fouasi dropped into a chair, breathing out harshly. He sat for a moment in bitter silence. "This Kent," he said quietly. "He's got to realise he can't fuck with me."
"You want me to see to it, Boss?" asked the Hulk.
"You bet your ass I do," said Fouasi, turning to him with glittering eyes. His fist clenched in a violent convulsion which made the desk shake. "You bet your sweet ass."

When Caroline's parents next came to visit her she gave them the work telephone number of a close friend. "Can you get her to give me a call? After...after everything that's happened, I think I'd appreciate a chat."
"Of course, dear. We'll do it as soon as we get back to the hotel."
As it happened Caroline's friend was away on a business trip, but her answerphone recorded the message; and Rachel Savident, an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, received it the following morning on arriving at her office on the top floor of Global Datasystems Incorporated, alias Her Majesty's external security service, MI6.

SEVENTEEN
One nice thing about the north-west Surrey region is its semi-rural character; all those fir trees and heaths and patches of forest. The Major was walking in the woods which as a boy he had spent many happy hours exploring with his father. The little pocket of nature was traditionally known as the Fuel Allotments, the idea being that the poor people of the area could go there to gather firewood for use in the winter; a bit of a joke, since nothing like that had happened for over a hundred years. It had not benefited when a golf course had been plonked in the middle of it a few years back, despite the fact that the nearest existing such place wasn’t too difficult to get to in the age of the motor car, but most of it was still there. Occasionally, you might even e