Bought and Sold

by Tessa Valmur

  Bought and Sold

  Tessa Valmur

  Tessa Valmur

  Bought and Sold

  Chapter One

  Zoe peered out of the tiny window, as the plane banked then began its descent. The city and its airport that she glimpsed below seemed surrounded by sea. On one side a sea of crystal blue water and on the other three sides by a sea of sand dunes that stretched away seemingly to infinity. One road, a thin thread of sand blown tarmac, stretched along the coast and into the distance. Her tourist leaflet told her that the Middle-East State of El-Saram was a small, oil-rich monarchy that had a warm, friendly culture that welcomed tourists. It offered miles of unspoilt sandy beaches, five star hotels, beautiful weather and an unspoilt hinterland that called out to be explored.

  As the jet touched down, then rumbled along the tarmac towards the airport terminal, Zoe glanced out of the window again. Sunlight glared from the giant steel cylinders of an oil refinery that stood alongside the airport and the horizon shimmered in the fierce heat.

  The airport terminal was not air-conditioned and by the time Zoe reached the customs desk her white cotton blouse clung damply to her, accentuating her generous breasts. She flicked her long, dark hair impatiently clear of her face as she waited her turn in the small queue. She rehearsed her story again in her mind: she was a free-lance journalist, writing a piece on the country's pearl divers. She glanced again at her passport. Zara Chambers, twenty-four years old, born West Sussex, journalist. The photo was her but the rest was a lie. She was Zoe Farquerson, twenty-six and her employer was the British Secret Service. Relax, she told herself as she moved another place closer to the customs desk, she'd done this plenty of times before.

  When she showed her passport to the customs official she was asked to stand to one side and was soon forced to watch the backs of the last passengers passing through the doors that led into the arrivals lounge whilst she was kept waiting by the customs desk. She glanced at the security personnel who stood behind the plain table and in front of a large mirror that faced the customs desk.

  'Your bag please Miss Chambers.'

  'What? Oh yes, I suppose... of course.'

  Alone now with the two uniformed customs officials the arrivals lounge on the other side of the barrier seemed suddenly a long way off. The concrete corridor stood empty and silent. Why me, thought Zoe, lifting her bag onto the inspection table. Was it possible they knew who she really was? She glanced past the security guard at the large mirror that she guessed to be a mirrored window. Was someone watching her? Her training and intuition began to tell her that something was already seriously amiss with her mission.

  Behind the mirror window two men watched her silently. Ahmed Mosafa was a senior officer in the El-Saram internal security service. Rodney Stonefield, now the personal private secretary of the King of El-Saram, had until a year ago been a senior British government civil servant. Caught out selling secrets abroad he had been disgraced and once granted bail he'd fled rather than face trial.

  'So she is one of your spies?' Ahmed Mosafa raised an eyebrow as he regarded the staggeringly beautiful young girl who stood impatiently before the customs counter as her bag was searched.

  'Five years in the business, dear chap. Three as a desk girl at Head Quarters and the last two years as a field operative,' answered Stonefield.

  'As agreed then we shall pay you your fee for this valuable piece of information directly into your Swiss Bank account. There will then just remain your wish to1/4'the Arab left his sentence hanging unfinished. The Englishman smiled maliciously as he watched the girl through the concealed mirror.

  'To watch her suffer at your hands. That will be the most satisfying part of our gentleman's agreement.'

  'This girl has angered you in some way? You wish to even a score with her, yes?'

  'Absolutely. You see my dear Ahmed, she was one of the team the secret service used to spy on me once they suspected what I was up to.'

  'I see.'

  'Of course she'll tell you lots of useful things, though she may take some persuading. I dare say she knows the other agents that Britain has in your country and our links with your pathetic little pro-democracy movement and its plans to unseat his Excellency. It will be amusing to watch you coaxing the information from her. We must just make sure though that she never recognises me. Or if she does, that she never returns to Britain.'

  'Once her interrogation is complete I shall have her moved to my little country retreat. You must come and visit me and we can take our time with her there.'

  'Major Mosafa, you are too kind.'

  * * *

  Zoe glanced around her. Her heart was hammering and in her mind she was urgently running over what might happen next and how she could best deal with it. On the pretext of wanting to carry out a routine body search for drugs she had been led into a small, windowless room by two female security guards. In one corner there was a tiled shower but with no screen or curtain around it. There was a rough wooden table and chair, an old metal filing cabinet and an old tea chest up-ended to make a crude table which was scattered with little metal cups, a battered silver coffee pot and an earthenware bowl full of fruit. There was a large mirror on one wall which Zoe guessed again to be a concealed window and more disconcerting still was a broad, stout bench with leather straps fastened to each of its four corners. At the sight of the bench those alarm bells in Zoe's mind that hadn't yet gone off were now ringing out loudly. She was in deep trouble!

  'Take your clothes off please,' ordered one of the women.

  Zoe knew she couldn't really object; a strip search for drugs was almost routine in many countries. Reluctantly she began to unbutton her jeans.

  'Can you tell me how long... only...'

  'Search now, no problems then you go.'

  The reply was peremptory but a little reassuring. Perhaps she was just worrying unnecessarily. She quickly pulled off her boots then removed her jeans. The sooner she could get out of here the better, she thought, handing her jeans to one of the woman who checked the pockets before tossing them onto a chair. Anyway, even if she was held for any length of time her contact would be trying to find out what had happened to her and the Embassy would swiftly become involved. Relax, she told herself, unbuttoning her blouse

  'And your bra, take it off,' ordered the woman.

  Zoe had just handed her blouse to the woman.

  'But why? This is ridiculous!' she protested.

  'We have to search you for drugs. We have to make a proper search... now remove the rest of your clothing.'

  'Please can I...'

  'Do it!'

  The woman who was speaking stepped closer, one hand on the handle of her long truncheon. Zoe glanced from one of the uniformed women to the other. Both were in their late twenties or thirties. One was tall and powerfully built, the other slim and petite, though her short sleeved shirt showed well-muscled arms. Zoe herself was a petite 5'4". Her mother was Spanish and Zoe had inherited her olive skinned complexion and her slim build as well as her large, dark eyes and dark hair. Having been trained in unarmed combat she felt confident that she could look after herself in a tight situation. There was no point though in annoying these women. Get the search over and done with, she told herself, then get the hell out of here!

  Having removed her bra and then her pants she glanced nervously at the women as they appraised her. Being naked made her feel acutely vulnerable and she anxiously eyed the women's long truncheons slung from their belts. She looked worriedly around the room, glimpsing her reflection in the large mirror. Her long, sable hair tumbled over her smooth shoulders, the ends falling far enough to partly cover her breasts, which were high and generous. Her taut stomach showed her fast, nervous breathing. She felt her che
eks crimson as the younger guard who'd taken her bra and pants, looked admiringly at the expensive silk and lace.

  Both of the women facing her wore stout black leather boots with dark blue trousers tucked into puttees. They had on crisply starched, dark green, short sleeve shirts. Their dark hair was cut short and both wore dark green peaked caps with badges proclaiming the National Guard.

  'Now, lie face down on that couch.'

  'Why?' Zoe objected.

  'Lie face down on the couch,' the woman ordered.

  'I want to speak with a representative of the British Embassy,' Zoe demanded, glancing anxiously at the door and quickly assessing her chances of escape. The two young women made no answer but closed upon her, glancing as they did so at the large wall mirror, that Zoe was now certain must be a another mirror window.

  'Lie down on the bench so that we can conclude our search of you, then you will be allowed to go.'

  Like hell I will, thought Zoe, certain now that this was no routine search. Somehow they must know who she was? How on earth had that happened? Her thoughts were turning to what to do next when the door opened and a man in similar uniform to the women entered the room, quickly shutting and locking the door behind him. Distracted by the man, before she had time to respond, the two women seized her wrists, jerking her arms in opposite directions.

  Immediately Zoe's training took over. She swiftly jerked her right arm free from the younger girl and aimed a karate blow against the other woman. The young girl though grabbed her arm again, spoiling her blow. A sharp punch to her stomach momentarily winded her and a hand chopping down on the back of her neck stunned her and she crumpled to her knees.

  Before she could recover her senses properly the man briskly stepped forwards and pressed a thick pad of cotton wool firmly against her face. His hand clasped her hair at her nape and held her head forward into the cotton wool and an overpowering chemical smell assailed her. The two female guards pinned her arms and held her down, for a few seconds she struggled ineffectually, then her body went slack as she was forced to breathe in the chloroform.

  When she regained consciousness she found herself lying on her back on the bench. There was the cool feel of leather tight around her wrists and ankles. Her arms were stretched out above her head and her legs were widely spread. Trying to move she realised, with dismay, that her arms and legs were held in place by taut straps clipped to the leather cuffs around her ankles and wrists.

  'Are the British not looking for her yet, Major?'

  'There was no-one waiting to meet her in the airport and she had a room booked at a hotel. The official story is that she was last seen leaving the airport by taxi. The British can hardly accuse us of lying can they? They're far too polite for that.'

  Zoe felt her heart sink as she listened to the voices. Another man was in the room talking with the first.

  'She's awake, look.'

  'So Miss Farquerson, you are with us again. I trust you enjoyed your little sleep?'

  'My name is Zara Chambers... I don't know who you think I am, but I'm just...'

  'Please, spare us your fanciful story,' the man she'd not seen before laughed mildly. He was an Arab, short and rotund and wearing a western suit.

  'Really, you have to believe me, I'm a journalist, my name's Chambers, haven't you seen my passport?' Zoe lifted her head from the bench so that she could get a clearer view of the man.

  'We know the bitch is lying,' growled the other man, who wore the uniform of a Captain in the National Guard, 'let's see how long she takes to change her story.'

  'Please... listen, you've got to believe me, my name is Zara Chambers.'

  'I think it's time we help you remember your true name,' said the Arab in the western suit, 'tell your women to start on her.'

  'Certainly Major. It will be a pleasure,' said the Guards Captain, 'the bitch will soon be begging to tell us everything she knows.'

  As if in a nightmare from which she couldn't wake Zoe listened to the sound of the women's boots cross the stone floor.

  'Please... I don't know anything...'

  'Why are you looking so anxious, little English girl?' the small Arab asked.

  The older of the two female guards reached out and stroked Zoe's hair clear of her face.

  'You have to believe me... my name's Chambers...'

  'There is still time for you to be spared suffering.'

  As the man spoke, the woman stroked her hand down Zoe's chest, circling her breasts with her fingers. Zoe's breathing was coming in short urgent gasps as she glanced anxiously about her.

  'Get your hands off me! You can't do this! You won't get away with this. I'm a British citizen, if you...'

  'Spare us please your protestations,' the Arab in the suit smiled down at her with scarcely contained amusement, 'Firstly, let us say that you have been stopped as a suspect for drugs trafficking. Now, we are going to conduct a body search. Hardly something your government can object to, especially when carried out by two women. I assure you that the Captain and myself would not dream of touching your body. So Miss Chambers that is all that is happening. Of course, if you wish to admit to us that Chambers is not your name and that you are a British spy, then I should look favourably upon such a voluntary admission.'

  'My name's Chambers and I haven't done anything wrong!'

  'So you say, but I am afraid we are still obliged and entitled to search you. Do you know where some people hide drugs? I am afraid that in case you have swallowed some we will have to give you, umm, what is the English word... it escapes me for the moment. Let me put it this way, we will put a mixture into your bowels to make them empty.'

  'No, you can't do this...' Zoe blurted.

  'I am so sorry for you, I have been told that it can be a little uncomfortable,' the man smiled with blatant insincerity.

  'Please... let me go...' Zoe looked around frantically from one face to another. The short balding Arab in the creased suit looked down at her, his sham smile of apology turning to a malicious grin.

  'Of course, occasionally the mixture that is fed into the bowels through the anus is not correctly measured. It has to be hot to encourage the body to expel what it is holding. Sometimes, the girls mixing the spices for the paste we use put too much of something in and the effects can be quite distressing. Really quite distressing...'

  'You bastard! If you torture me, then...'

  'Good heavens! Who suggested such a thing? No, no, my dear girl. This is a civilised country which welcomes English tourists. All I said was we will have to search your body for drugs.'

  'Damn you, I know what you're telling me!' Zoe jerked her arms against the leather wristcuffs and pulled angrily with her legs against the restraints.

  'Dear girl, whatever we do to you, your body won't show any marks. And of course it would be your word against ours. Now, spare yourself what is about to happen, admit to us you are a British spy. I am Major Mosafa of the El-Saram Internal Security Service. I know who you are. Enough of this game, the time has come for you to co-operate.'

  'No...' Zoe shook her head in denial.

  The Guards Captain nodded to the two female guards.

  'Go ahead, it's time to persuade the bitch to talk.'

  There was an agonising pause, then fingers felt between her buttocks, making Zoe try to jerk away but the leather, closely fastened around her ankles, restrained her.

  'What are you doing? Please... don't... I don't know anything1/4believe me, please... no...' Zoe craned her head back as she felt hands drawing apart the globes of her buttocks. The older woman saw her watching her work and she smiled with satisfaction.

  'Come now, lie still... there's nothing you can do to stop us,' said the Major.

  The younger female guard meshed her fingers into Zoe's long hair and pushed her head firmly back down.

  'Uhh... no... please...'

  Fingers were smearing something greasy against her anus. Instinctively Zoe tried pulling her legs together but the leather straps around h
er ankles kept them spread. She gave a whimper of protest as one fingertip began working the greasy substance into her rectum. Squirming and pulling against the leather cuffs that kept her arms held above her head, she gave an anguished groan as her sphincter muscle was coaxed with grease to admit the passage first of one finger then of several fingers together.

  'Are you sure you don't want to co-operate?' the Major asked.

  The fingers meshed in her hair dragged Zoe's head up, forcing her to see two short lengths of hose now held by the other woman.

  'Go to hell!' hissed Zoe through clenched teeth.

  The Major gave a nod for the women to continue. Zoe grunted as her head was pulled back down.

  'Do you know what's going to happen to you English girl?' asked the older woman, 'This tube will be put deep inside you; then I shall force a paste through the tube into your delicate young body. It will give you much discomfort at first; then after a short time you'll be begging me to stop the torture. The heat inside you will get worse until you can't stand it and then you will answer our questions to save yourself.'

  'She is right,' said Mosafa. 'Spare yourself this, co-operate with us now.'

  'Like I just said,' Zoe hissed. 'Go to hell!'

  'You will not be feeling so brave in a few moments' time,' the woman laughed softly.

  Zoe screwed her eyes shut, whimpering as fingertips were exchanged for the cold hard plastic of the tube. She lay, her cheeks burning with shame, unable to believe what was happening to her as the tube was slowly forced up inside her.

  'Listen to me, admit who you are and I can still stop this happening to you,' Mosafa offered.

  'My name's Chambers...' Zoe gasped, twisting her head against the fingers that meshed into her hair and held her still.

  'We're going to put a mixture through the tube, a paste that is mixed with hot spices it will make your bowels urgently want to empty... it is not a pleasurable sensation. After a few minutes you will feel as if you are burning up... you will be howling with discomfort. You only need to admit to me who you are...'