Sexile

by Lisa Lawrence

  “Bastard threatened to castrate me,’ said Graham, sitting on the couch, his hand running over his shaved head. “He’s the kind to do it, too.’

  I’d tell him later about Ferreira’s sick gift box for me. Not the time.

  “Stupid—letting him take me like that.’

  I started to undress in front of him. He looked at me with innocent curiosity and made a nervous chuckle.

  “What are you doing?’

  “Make love to me.’

  “I want to,’ he said. “But…’

  “But you’ve just had a knock to your confidence,’ I answered for him. “There’s always a small part of a guy that’s still a little boy in the playground. The one who hates losing to a bully. And you’re kicking yourself now, because you feel like you blew it as a professional. And you didn’t have time for the fear when you were in the shit, but now you can feel it, you feel how close you came to getting hurt and killed.’

  “I suppose I’m like glass to you,’ he said, dropping his eyes, embarrassed.

  “Is it a bad thing that I can figure you out and know what you need?’ I asked.

  “No.’

  “Then trust me.’

  I led him into the bedroom. I pulled out the belts from the terry-cloth bathrobes and told him to tie me to the bars in the brass headboard. And with my wrists bound, naked and offering myself to him, I watched him kneel on the bed, his breathing becoming rapid and loud, his hands running over my belly, my breasts, my mound with a new sense of discovery. I’m sure he’d played bondage games before, but this was different, and his cock was a vivid red, pointing north with what looked like an almost painful erection. He sucked my nipples and brought his teeth down in gentle nips, felt me between my legs and let his hands roam all over my skin like a pottery artist with clay. With a groan torn from his soul, a kind of desperate anger in it, he straddled me high on the chest, careful not to bring down his weight, and I opened my mouth for his penis, anticipating what he wanted. Firm in my mouth, a twitch in reaction to my tongue, pleasure coursing through him, and if he needed to come … I thought he was almost there, almost there…

  But another groan of self-restraint. He pulled himself out and down, and after a second I felt him squeeze my tits so that he could rub his cock between my breasts. Tied up like this, it was a vaguely pleasant sensation, still the anticipation he might suddenly shoot and release his spunk all over me. But after a moment, he let go of my breasts and moved to hug me in his arms, a new shudder of naked emotion racking his muscles. Outrage. Fear. Vulnerability.

  “How can you…?’ He stared at me in grateful wonder, barely able to finish the question. How could I know this would work for him? Give him back his masculine power— no, let him realize that he’d never lost it, through the exhilaration of having me vulnerable for him, to be cherished or ravished as he pleased. And despite his hard-on, he slithered down the bed and parted my thighs, putting his whole mouth on my pussy. I moaned as he began to lap, drinking me in, his tongue probing my vaginal lips, pushing in as far as his tongue could go, then withdrawing and flicking up to tease my clitoris. After a while I was begging him to get inside me. But he wouldn’t. His lips and tongue played with my clit until I was yanking hard on the bonds of cloth, but he had tied them good and tight. Then with a jaguar’s grace, he climbed on top of me, the head of his cock nudging my pussy lips. But with a laugh, he didn’t push deeper. I felt a pulse in my core.

  “Fuck me!’ I cried. “Come on, fuck me!’

  He made the shallowest penetration, prompting my desperate moans, and his control was torturous and exquisite. Only after my second orgasm did he plunge completely inside me. His teeth sank into my breast above my nipple, and I told him to leave a mark. I keened with the glorious pain and pleasure from the bite, laughed as I saw the impressions of his teeth. Now he couldn’t get inside me deep enough, kneeling and lifting my ass off the bed with my ankles once more on his shoulders as his cock rammed inside me. I came with a scream, and this seemed to spur his orgasm, but as he let my ass back down on the bed and pulled out, I saw he was still hard. He thrust in again as if by instinct and shook violently, completely overwhelmed, the sensation unexpected. I felt him shoot inside me once more. And as he laid himself on top of me, his cock on my belly, he let out a high moan with yet another new gushing stream, coming all over my stomach.

  My right hand nearly tore the brass bar out of the headboard, the terry-cloth bond ripping, and my hand free, I grabbed his cock and jerked him once, twice, a dribble of spunk from the crimson head as he shut his eyes tight and climaxed a final time. God, it was like holding a spear of steel flesh, my fingers slick on the great length of him.

  “Uhh…Shit.’

  “Come on, baby.’

  Fell next to me, kissing me, both of us exhausted.

  “I didn’t know that was possible,’ he said. “Guys having multiples.’

  “You can,’ I said, panting.

  “It’s you that makes it possible.’

  “I need to clean up.’

  “Noooo,’ he sang. “I think I’ll bathe you here.’

  “Well, that could be fun, too.’

  ♦

  We didn’t stay in Graham’s place in Botafogo—we couldn’t, now that it was clear Haskell was still in town and posed an active threat. That meant the safe house in Copacabana was also blown, since Haskell, as an MI6 big shot, would know it. We were left with the Control base apartment Hodd had personally set up in Greater Rio, a spacious penthouse in São Cristóvão, out near the zoo and the Maracanã Football Stadium.

  Good news was that London believed Hodd’s reports, and it didn’t like how chummy Haskell was with José Ferreira, nor that Haskell had never bothered to share his grand scheme with the Foreign Office or his superiors on the Albert Embankment. London certainly didn’t enjoy informing the Brazilian Federal Police that there was a major threat involving Islamic terrorists, organized crime, and a multinational conglomerate (only it didn’t have useful details, and no, it couldn’t explain how it got confirmation).

  Hodd was positively beaming at the news that Graham had shot Haskell in the leg.

  We spent a day cooling our heels, and I thought about my time with Luis and Helê. I thought about the whole case. Editing the movies, watching houses from a parked hired car. I wondered what Ferreira and Haskell were arranging for their shadow masters, the vampires at Orpheocon. And my tired mind flashed back to images of the soft-swinging couples, desperate fucking in front of an audience in a stranger’s bedroom, bodies entwined—

  “Voyeurism,’ I said softly, more to myself than to Graham and Hodd. “Political voyeurism.’

  “What?’ Hodd’s eyes peeped over his spectacle rims. He lifted his nose out of a report.

  “This whole case,’ I answered. “All of it, it’s been about watching.’

  “What do you mean?’ asked Graham.

  “I mean my directing the porn movies, what Orpheocon and Haskell are doing with Ferreira …’ It was difficult to explain what I felt. “It’s kind of the same thing.’

  Hodd flipped a page and drawled, “A little overanalytical for porn, don’t you think?’

  “Simon told me—well, as much as he could tell me—that they would use all this, whatever their plan is, as a test case—’

  Graham moaned irritably. “Yes, well, your friend Highsmith and his grand assumptions—’

  “Just hear me out,’ I started again. “I think he was right. We know who benefits—the question is how. This terrorist attack—they’ll let it happen. That’s what Marinho said while he was cuffed to the radiator. The goal isn’t the attack , whatever it is. It’s the fallout, the reaction—political or economic. Orpheocon wants the attack to be a catalyst for something else. That’s the test case.’

  “Makes sense,’ Hodd mumbled.

  “The whole point of a terrorist attack is to terrorize, and if you want to do that, you make a big splash where you hurt and scare the most people. Now
where is that?’

  Graham shrugged over the obvious. “Here. Rio, of course.’

  “And if not Rio?’

  “São Paulo,’ offered Hodd.

  “But that’s the insane thing. They plan to hit Foz do Iguaçu. So there must be something in or near that city that Haskell cares about, something important. Orpheocon wants it, whatever it is, and when Beatriz and her people make their attack, it will allow Haskell and his corporate creeps to somehow go in and take their goodies and… what? What’s wrong?’

  I stopped because Graham was staring at me.

  “No, I think you’re right,’ said Graham quietly. “Oh, God, Teresa, you’re brilliant. You’re brilliant, and we’re stupid, and they’re quite mad.’

  “You want to tell me what all that means?’

  “Please do,’ urged Hodd.

  Graham moved to a bookshelf and pulled out a Times atlas. “Haskell said it, Teresa. Remember? He bragged on the street that he was one of the real economists—the son of a bitch.’

  He flipped the pages of the atlas quickly to detailed views of the Paraná state. “Right, never mind the terrorism target for the moment. I think you’ve nailed it—the key is the reaction to the crisis. It’s about what Orpheocon hopes to get for itself. It’s got a private ‘security’ army just like Blackwater, so it has the means to take what it wants.’

  His finger poked a tiny circle on the map. “Here’s Foz do lguaçu. The tri-border—Brazil, Argentina, and Paraguay. There’s supposed to be a secret U.S. military air base here. In Paraguay.’

  “There is,’ Hodd piped up. He came over and traced his own finger on the map. “Here. Mariscal Estigarribia. It can house up to twenty thousand soldiers. The Americans dug in to stay two years ago. They feared Islamic terrorists using the tri-border to sneak up through South America and across Mexico. Washington has always denied it’s a base, claiming that their personnel are there simply for joint exercises with the Paraguayan military—Her Majesty’s Gov ern ment knows different. If you want to land a Hercules aircraft, this is the place to do it.’

  “Which the Paraguayan air force doesn’t have,’ Graham said tartly.

  “It gets worse,’ sighed Hodd. “The Senate of Paraguay signed a deal that grants full immunity to U.S. troops from national and International Criminal Court prosecution.’

  I heard myself make an incredulous sound. “Are you joking?’

  “I wish we were,’ said Graham. “If a U.S. soldier has a go with a fool in a bar in Asunción, he can stab the guy to death and never see trial. I’m sure that extends to the security contractors. And guess who’s the biggest military contractor in South America?’

  “Orpheocon.’ I groaned. “But what are they after this time?’

  Hodd was frowning, brushing his wisps of comb-over. “If they want to use a terrorist attack as a pretext for Paraguay—and/or the U.S.—to invade Brazilian territory for ‘international security,’ it must be big. Something that’s precious like minerals or natural gas. Bolivia has that on the other side of Mariscal Estigarribia, so maybe it’s—’

  “Water,’ said Graham.

  Hodd wasn’t buying it. “Water? Oh, come on. Something bigger than that.’

  “It’s big enough, believe me.’ Graham flipped the atlas page to a larger view of the continent. He rapped a knuckle on a patch of green space. “The world’s freshwater reserves are decreasing. In the future, water will be the new oil. And the tri-border sits on top of the Guarani Aquifer—one of the largest underground sources of fresh water in the world. Des, the Americans have got to be in on this.’

  Hodd was doubtful. “Washington gets accused all the time over the tri-border, Graham. I suspect this is Orph -eocon’s show. I’ll bet they want to raid the shop before the Americans realize what they’re after. Their mercenaries can move into Brazil without a single U.S. soldier leaving that base. By the time it’s done, the octopus will just say to Washington, ‘Oh, but we did it for international security and your sake.’ They’ll argue they were ‘protecting’ an American ally, Paraguay, from terrorists by moving into Brazilian territory.’

  “So get on the phone and call the Americans,’ urged Graham, falling onto the couch.

  Hodd waved that away. “Too dangerous—that could backfire horribly. Think about it. They won’t hear ‘Orpheocon,’ they’ll hear ‘terrorist attack’ imminent. They’ll run to help the buggers. It’s diabolical! Beatriz’s attack offers the perfect excuse for Orpheocon to invade in Paraguay’s name. And even if the Americans start asking hard questions, Orpheocon might say, ‘We’ll cut you in.’ Washington won’t assert Brazil’s sovereignty—they’ll have all that lovely water and the map swept clean of Islamic fundamentalists. Or so they’ll tell themselves.’

  “There’s got to be something you can do,’ I insisted. “These bastards will drink this country dry.’

  Simon’s assessment came back to me, and I knew now it was spot-on—this would, indeed, be a “test case.’ A corporate colonial strategy: Cause political chaos that changes the landscape in favor of your business.

  And Haskell had wanted to recruit Graham for a bigger operation in Africa.

  “We don’t know the target of Beatriz’s group, and we have one shot at stopping this,’ said Graham. “There’s someone else we need to talk to.’

  I sat down next to him. “Who?’

  “A contact of mine.’

  “I can’t authorize you meeting that person!’ said Hodd. “You know the official position of the British government on—’

  Graham cut him off. “Des, I don’t care. Yes, London has made you Control of this op now, but we’ve come late to the party. Forget the official position, we need all the help we can get.’

  I let them bicker over that for a moment. My mind was still reeling from the impending horror. Graham went into another room to place a phone call, and after a few minutes, he emerged, looking grim, and addressed Hodd.

  “They’re willing to talk,’ said Graham. “But not to you or me. It seems they’ve learned a few things on their own. And they’ll only speak to Teresa.’

  “Who are we talking about here?’ I asked.

  “Hezbollah.’

  ♦

  That was how I found myself staring at a massive, ginor-mous, absolutely huge curtain of water: Iguaçu Falls, sitting on the border of Brazil and Argentina.

  Graham’s spooky they, Hezbollah, had left instructions that I should get there early. They had an entire route I had to follow as a tourist until they felt it safe enough to approach . (“And of course, you’ll have a better time,’ they added, “seeing things before it gets hot and all the wildlife is gone.’ Cheeky buggers.)

  Graham told me I should relax and keep my mind off the rendezvous, that I “might as well enjoy myself.’

  So I got the panoramic view of Garganta do Diablo, what they call “the Devil’s Throat,’ and got thoroughly soaked in my summer dress on the walkways. Well, my man had warned me to dress for a dousing. Kids chattered excitedly around me, and thirty digital cameras flashed away.

  The cascade makes you think Niagara is a council estate’s leaky tap, and its only rival is Victoria Falls over in Zambia and Zimbabwe. I got the close-up, more intimate vision of it from the Argentine side, and after a quick bite, I went roaming in the rainforest of Iguaçu National Park.

  It’s one thing to see toucans in Amazon documentaries or breakfast cereal commercials, and quite another thing to have this goofy orange bill extending over a tree branch as its owner looks down at you. I burst out laughing, and it eyed me suspiciously. I spotted a couple of monkeys, and I almost forgot what I was doing there, reading the safety pamphlet about what to do if one encounters a jaguar (rare, but still possible—oh, great) when a voice in the trees said: “Hello, Miss Knight. It’s something, isn’t it?’

  There was a dull crash of leaves as a man came out of the bush, smiling politely at me. He looked about thirty-five, and his coloring suggested he came from the Middle
East— that and the light accent to his English. His curly black beard was full. He had sweated through his white dress shirt, and he wore beige Dockers and sensible sneakers.

  No way in this dense foliage could Hodd arrange surveillance.

  “So,’ I said in mild wonder, my nerves getting the better of me, “you’re Hezbollah.’

  He smiled but didn’t confirm it. He didn’t really need to.

  I was face-to-face with a guy from one of the most controversial and—depending on where you were— despised Shi’a Islamic political and paramilitary organizations. Washington hated them. To the Arab world, they were resistance fighters against Israel. And if you were in Brazil?

  “You may call me Khalil,’ he said politely. “First, it is important for you to understand that this young woman Beatriz is not one of ours. She is not with us.’

  “I didn’t think she was with anyone. I thought she was operating on her own.’

  “Beatriz calls her group ‘True Base.’ We have been watching them for some time, a terrorist group in its infancy, growing out of a gang of bandits. Did you know the Arabic word qaidah means ‘base’? It’s where Al Qaeda gets its name.’

  “Actually,’ I said in a modest voice, “I did.’

  “Oh, yes, of course,’ said Khalil. “You visited your ancestral home of Sudan, you must know a little Arabic.’

  Jeez, did everyone have a file on me?

  “About Beatriz and her people,’ I prompted.

  His lip curled contemptuously at the thought of them. “She has cells in other communities, not just Rio, but we haven’t pinned down where yet. As far as we can tell, they have no coherent ideology at all, except as a nihilist group. And what she believes of Islam! They make it up as they go along.’ He made a bitter laugh, no humor in it. “She loves Allah—and hates every Muslim group but her own. Says they’ve always been wrong in their treatment of women.’