by Nicole Dere
‘So what?’ he snorted. ‘We can always say they forced us into it. In fact they did force us into it, didn’t they? We would never normally have done everything we did, not exactly. That’s what comes from running around naked for months like animals in a cage, which is how they kept us. That certainly wasn’t our doing.’
‘Oh yeah, you can see on the tape just how reluctant you were to screw Jane!’ I countered vehemently. ‘You were clearly forced so much to behave in an unaccustomed way and so reluctant to participate that it’s amazing you ever got it up!’ I felt a stab of guilt when I heard Jane’s sob of pain and shame, but I could not help myself. I was sick with rage at Jack’s attitude. Why couldn’t he just be thankful we had emerged from the whole rotten business safely? Why did he keep insisting on making trouble for us?
He stared coldly at me. ‘And you, babe,’ he said, his tone level and cutting. ‘I don’t see any scratches on Koloba’s face where you tried to fight him off.’
‘Stop it!’ Jane suddenly cried. ‘Both of you, stop it! All this bickering is going to do us no good at all!’
‘Oh yes,’ I snarled spitefully, ignoring Jane’s sensible plea for calm; I was suddenly filled with a raging fury for what we had been put through, and I aimed all my suppressed feelings at Jack, whose belligerent attitude was making him a simple and obvious target, ‘the president does bear scratches, and other marks of passion too, but you won’t get to see them.’ Jack fell silent and just stared at me, but I wanted to go on; I wanted to hurt him. ‘They’re on his back, you see. I got so carried away at the way he made me orgasm so wonderfully and so easily and so frequently…’
Jack just stared at me, his shoulders sagging, and I instantly loathed myself and wished I could take such bitchy words back. But it was too late, they had been said, and they hung ominously in the air between us.
‘I don’t really want to interrupt your little tiff, but I’d just like to remind you all that we’re not actually free yet, no matter how well they appear to be treating us.’ Carl’s quiet voice was in such contrast to the raw emotion simmering between Jack and me that it pulled us up short and introduced an air of reason into the room.
‘What’s the alternative if we don’t go along with what they want?’ he continued, once he saw that he had defused the confrontation between the two of us and had our attention. ‘What is the alternative,’ he repeated, ‘for the present, at least? And don’t forget the press conference is arranged for tomorrow. Right here, in the palace of our brave liberator. And those security guys from our embassy will be there.’ He looked at each of us in turn, clearly surprised by our lack of reaction. ‘Did you not notice them?’ he asked. ‘Particularly dangerous individuals, if you ask me, and not the sort we should consider getting on the wrong side of. They were some extremely fit looking specimens for trade attachés, wouldn’t you say? I’ll tell you now – I for one will be saying exactly what Sir Gordon tells me to say. And I’d advise you lot to do the same, if you ever want to get out of here in one piece.’
Chapter 20
In the end we all heeded Carl’s advice, though Jack muttered privately how different things would be ‘once we get the hell out of this dump’. I thought it was somewhat unfair to describe our present surroundings as a ‘dump’; our rooms were part of the sumptuous guest wing of the presidential palace. We each had a whole new wardrobe of designer labelled clothing to choose from, first class food, and a retinue of servants to attend to our every hedonistic wish. So, it was not surprising that the world media should assume from our well groomed appearance that we had received nothing but generous treatment at the hands of the president during all the long months of our captivity. And, despite my intense anxiety, none of us, including my husband, gave them cause to think anything else.
Mind you, the media’s presence at the conference had been carefully controlled. There were television cameras there and news agency representatives, but not that many. The Leontondese authorities, quietly and ably assisted by British government officials, who kept a very low profile, screened most of the footage that went out to the world about us.
A very low profile, I should say, all except Sir Gordon, who was very much out front fielding and filtering all the questions, smoothing over any awkward moments, such as the question which came from one of the foreign journalists who referred to the testimony of Nicky Gimburg, which seemed to suggest that the use of physical and sexual abuse had taken place on a disturbing level.
Sir Gordon jumped in swiftly. ‘Well, these good people cannot speak for what might or might not have happened privately outside their presence. I seem to remember several of the hostages confirmed that even on the plane there were altercations between Ms Gimburg and the hijackers. As Mr and Mrs Freeman and Mr and Mrs Kinsella have been at pains to stress, once the distressing early stages of their confinement passed and the four of them were reunited, thanks to the good auspices of President Koloba as well as our own quietly unceasing efforts on their behalf, they have been treated extremely well.
‘As I am sure you will all agree, ladies and gentlemen, from their remarkably reassuring appearance here today before you after the trauma of their long spell under duress, that point is clearly confirmed.’
However, even the suave diplomat was clearly relieved when the conference was drawn to a close, after we had posed for a final picture, grouped around the beaming president, his arms draped heavily round Jane and me, resting on our shoulders, while our spouses’ arms snaked in righteous possession about our waists.
As soon as we had left the room Jack sought out Sir Gordon, his features set in a determined scowl. ‘That was a load of rubbish!’ he said aggressively. ‘A complete farce, and you can’t expect us to keep it up just to make you look good. I don’t care what you’ve got on tape. I don’t give a damn! We’ve a right to let people know what really happened to us, what we’ve been through. Call it compensation, if you like. But there’s a lot of folk who will pay good money – very good money – to hear what really happened to us!’
Sir Gordon stood and took the outburst and never batted an eyelid. Keeping his voice low and controlled, he answered, ‘Yes, of course, I’m sure you’re right. But have you considered how it will affect you, what public opinion will be, if all the truth comes out? Have you considered how all four of you adjusted to life at the compound? I am referring of course to your sexual activities. The people out there may feel you are totally unreliable once they are aware of what went on. They may – and believe me, they probably will – feel that anything you say is not to be trusted. And the media moguls may not feel like parting with their money for what their readers and viewers and listeners regard as nothing but an unreliable pack of lies.’
He put his arm round Jack’s shoulder, steering him, and us, away from prying ears and eyes, smiling that urbane smile of his all the while, as though he was merely chatting about the weather or the latest cricket scores.
‘But, on the matter of compensation, I think you will find our government can be most sympathetic – and generous – when it comes to repaying you for the torment you have endured and for your cooperation and discretion in what is a difficult and stressful situation for all concerned.’
‘Buy our silence, you mean?’ Jack said, and Jane and I blushed at his bluntness. ‘Well, we don’t come cheap, I can tell you that for nothing.’
‘I’m sure you do not,’ Sir Gordon said smoothly, and smiled with infuriating confidence. ‘And I am sure your worth will not be underestimated.’ He turned away as Koloba and his senior aides came over to us.
‘Ah, Mr President,’ he said warmly, as though the conversation just concluded had never taken place, ‘it all went off rather well, don’t you think? And our friends played their part admirably, I must say.’
The president’s booming laugh rolled out over us in a veritable wave of unrestrained mirth, and I felt my toes squirming under the directness of his gaze. ‘Yes indeed, Sir Gordon,’ he chortled cheerfully. �
��Anyone would think they had been coached on their lines…’
We remained a further week at the palace, troubled no longer by journalists or any other outside influence. We were treated as VIP’s, taken around the country’s game parks and all the other tourist attractions we had never gotten to know during our long months of confinement. Our main mode of transport was the helicopter, the very machine in which Koloba had screwed me. I felt uncomfortable being in it with Jack, who was totally oblivious to what had taken place over the very seat on which he sat beside me.
I also felt uncomfortable at Kamau’s polite greeting, unable to forget the bizarre circumstances of our first meeting, but apart from a fleeting and surreptitious smile and glance at Jack, that my husband fortunately did not notice, he made no references, veiled or otherwise, to the shameful incident, and I soon relaxed.
In fact, I became more embarrassed and uncomfortable at the sudden emotional strains that seemed to have sprung up between the four of us. We struggled to be determinedly jolly, and to ignore the peculiar links that had forged our special relationship. At night, in our luxurious bedroom, Jack made love to me with his accustomed fervour, and I responded in kind, though once the frolicking and fucking were done we had little to say to each other.
Chapter 21
It was inevitable, I suppose, that the three of us accepted Jack as the leader of our quartet as his dominating personality came more and more to the fore. We never discussed it, nor did we show any sign of objecting; it was just a natural development. We were weary and he was bullish and aggressive, so it just happened. Jane and I – and Carl, we were increasingly realising – had always had that willingness to be subservient in our sex play, but this was different, something much deeper and more fundamental. The long months of our captivity had brought about profound changes in us. It had brought out those facets of our personalities that had either lain dormant or that we had kept decently suppressed up until that watershed in our lives. Whatever the reason, Jack assumed a responsibility for us that extended beyond the games we played in the bedroom or bathroom.
And others clearly recognised it too, particularly Sir Gordon, who soon looked to Jack as our spokesman and decision maker, virtually ignoring the thoughts and opinions of we other three.
‘We have found an ideal place for you to recuperate,’ the diplomat told us, on one of his almost daily visits. ‘It is a beautiful tropical isle, no less. Have any of you ever heard of Lord Staith?’
We all looked suitably mystified, and so Sir Gordon went on to explain.
‘I am not surprised that you have not,’ he said, relaxed in our company but always somewhat formal, determined to remain in control of a potentially explosive situation. ‘Lord Staith keeps a deliberate low profile, but he is one of the most powerful and influential figures around – both in the UK and on the world scene at large. He is fabulously wealthy and has a finger in most pies.
‘Well, it is his island that we are proposing to send you to for a while. It is called Kendu, in the Indian Ocean off the East African coast. It is absolutely ideal for our purposes. It is only about an hour’s helicopter flight from here, and Lord Staith has very kindly put it at our disposal for as long as we want it. You will be able to indulge in sun, sea and sand, and you will live in the lap of luxury during your whole stay. Who could ask for anything more?’
He was trying to tell us something, I thought, behind that urbane manner of his.
And Jack was quick to pick up on it as well. ‘And how long are we going to be kept on this island paradise?’ Before Sir Gordon could answer him he went on. ‘Do we have any choice in the matter,’ he pressed, ‘or are we being effectively kidnapped again – but this time by our own people? I’m pretty sure I speak for the others,’ he nodded at Carl and Jane, ‘but I can safely say that Moira and me wouldn’t mind getting back to England – getting back home. We’ve been taken out of civilisation for the past year, and now we should be allowed to get our lives back. And you owe us that. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’
Sir Gordon looked indignant, and a little flustered, clearly reading Jack’s thinly veiled accusation. ‘But there is no rush, is there?’ he asked, without too much conviction. ‘Why not make the most of such a generous opportunity? Believe me, there are not many people who ever get the sort of a chance you are being given, and most people would have to pay a fortune to enjoy a luxury holiday that still would not even compare to what we are offering you.
‘And besides the enviable time you will have in paradise,’ the ambassador went on, recovering his aplomb very nicely, ‘Lord Staith can prove tremendously helpful, whatever you choose to do. As I said, there is not much he has not got control over… including the media,’ he added significantly. ‘At least give Kendu a few weeks? I assure you, it can only do you good – give you a chance to recharge your batteries.’
Then something happened that gave us further cause for serious thought. In our quieter moments, which were increasingly numerous, Jane and I had speculated a great deal about what had happened to our fellow hostages, especially Nicky and Anita, to whom we had grown closest in those early days of captivity.
But we found it oddly difficult to gain any hard news or facts about either of them. We were fobbed off when we asked if we could see the reaction in the press to their release, which had taken place more than six months before.
Then for no apparent reason the redoubtable Sir Gordon became much more cooperative on the matter. One morning he showed up with a box full of material.
‘I had hoped to spare you this,’ he declared ominously. ‘It is very recent, as you will see from the dates of the press cuttings.’
The first we looked at was only two weeks old:
EX-HOSTAGE DISAPPEARS. BODY FOUND ON MONTANA RANCH
Police are anxious to trace the whereabouts of twenty-year-old Nicky Gimburg, who last year was a passenger on an aeroplane hijacked by terrorists and held prisoner in Leontondo. After her release, she gave a lurid account of punishments and sexual abuse, particularly by the female member of the kidnap gang, German born Krista Wiel. Nicky, a student, and athlete of considerable promise, took up a reclusive life on a spread in a remote area of Montana, with her partner and lesbian lover, thirty-six-year-old Donna Steiner.
Two days ago, a hired hand discovered the naked and beaten body of Ms Steiner in the bedroom she shared with Ms Gimburg. There was no trace of her younger partner, and none of Ms Gimburg’s clothing or personal possessions were left at the ranch. The hand who made the discovery, forty-three-year-old Kevin Marks, told police that a dark-haired young woman had arrived at the ranch three days ago, and had apparently stayed there overnight.
The next day, Mr Marks had seen her vehicle leaving the property. The stranger, who was driving, was accompanied by Ms Gimburg. The following morning, when neither Ms Steiner nor Ms Gimburg had appeared as they usually did, he went up to the ranch-house for instructions, and after a brief search he discovered the body of Ms Steiner in the main bedroom.
There were other clippings, all from American papers, but adding nothing of any further help. Jane was crying quietly. ‘She wasn’t… she wasn’t a lesbian,’ she murmured, sadly shaking her head. ‘Not until Krista…’ her voice faded.
I cleared my throat. ‘What are they saying?’ I pondered aloud. ‘That Nicky was implicated in the killing? They think she and this other woman murdered her partner?’
Sir Gordon hesitated, looking uncomfortable in the face of our sadness. ‘There is something else,’ he said at last, ‘something that has not been made public. But our anti-terrorist chaps got hold of it, and they think it might be relevant – in your situation.’ He passed over a large, rather grainy black and white photograph, which had clearly been enlarged several times. ‘They think this might be the mystery visitor that turned up at the ranch.’
There was a head and shoulders image of a pretty, dark-haired young woman, her features rendered largely anonymous by the sunglasses that blanked
out her eyes. Although she was facing the camera, she did not look as though she was posing for the picture. In fact, it looked as though she was not aware of it being taken.
We stared at it for long minutes, at a loss, and then glanced up enquiringly at Sir Gordon.
‘Try to blot out the sunglasses,’ he suggested, ‘and the dark hair. Imagine blue eyes… and short, very blonde hair.’ He put the tip of his forefinger over the top of her head. ‘Look very, very carefully at that face…’
My heart hammered and I gave a small gasp that was simultaneously echoed by Jane. We stared, appalled. ‘Krista!’ we breathed together.
Sir Gordon nodded. ‘In our opinion, the sooner we get you away from here, the better.’ He shrugged. ‘If our fears are justified and somehow she got hold of that girl again…
‘We do not know anything else about the whereabouts or safety of Ms Gimburg, I am afraid. But I would feel far happier if you were on Kendu, where we could guarantee your safety. And so would you if you have got any sense whatsoever.’
‘Hi, my name’s Sas. I’ll be looking after you while you’re here. Anything you want at all, or if there’s anything wrong, you just let me know. His lordship will be here in a couple of days, and I know he’s looking forward very much to meeting you all.’
We were all staring open-mouthed at the beautiful creature who stood smiling before us. She was entirely naked. Her body was a deep toasted brown all over, with no sign of white flashes even at her full breasts, whose dark nipples stood out in ripe magnificence, or beneath the tuft of pubic curls which glinted in sun-bleached paleness to match her straight, simply cut blonde hair.