No Remorse

by Ian Walkley

  “Where did you find Sheriti?” an exuberant Sheik Fakhouri asked Khalid. “She is magnificent! She looks Egyptian. Is she a slave?”

  He knew where this conversation was headed and capped it quickly. “She is from your country, yes. She can turn any man’s dagger into a mighty sword, neh? But she is not mine to offer. She’s in my employ as long as she is respected by my men and guests. I’m sure one of the models dancing now will be a sufficiently pleasurable target for your spear. Or if none of the models appeals, you may wish to simply purchase one of the slaves we are about to auction? “

  “Of course, brother.” Fakhouri nodded his head with a sideways tilt, indicating his understanding, and turned to consider which of the models he might select.

  After the models had completed their dance, they lined up and the guests each made their selection in order of seniority, Sheik Abidi selecting first. Once the selections had been made, the models exited the tent, giggling among themselves. They would be returned to the Princess Aliya to prepare.

  Khalid stood and clapped his hands with a flourish. “And now, what some of you have come all this way for, brothers, the auction of our latest shipment of twenty-four beautiful young slaves from around the world!”

  A flap wall of the majlis was opened up to reveal a stage on which two men waited, holding long bamboo canes in case any of the slaves was uncooperative.

  Ziad was standing beside the stage to introduce the auction. “Brothers, you have a detailed profile of each slave in the folder beside you, so I’ll begin. Remember, all profits from the auction will go to supporting our Taliban brothers as they work hard to extend the Afghan conflict with the Americans and NATO. Our first offering is pretty Erika, from Sweden.”

  A hand pulled open a curtain at the side and a girl with blonde braids and a round, frightened face was shoved forward onto the stage. The simple robe showed the girl’s well-developed breasts but otherwise veiled her shape. Her downcast eyes were highlighted with eyeliner that gave her eyes a Cleopatra slant. She adopted the pose she had been ordered, offering a nervous smile, although she was clearly trembling.

  “Erika is sixteen, and was taken in Mexico City where she was an exchange student. Dr. Gammal has confirmed that she is a virgin, as indeed all of the girls on offer are. Erika would make an excellent concubine or household slave.”

  The men behind Erika on the stage each grabbed one side of her robe and dragged it up over her head, leaving her naked. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she opened her lips to show her teeth, then slowly did a full turn and shuffled back and forth across the stage.

  “Now, brothers, what am I bid for pretty Erika?” Ziad called out, above the guest’s chatter.

  Sindoro Tekawati, a short, silver-haired manufacturer from Indonesia, strode over to the stage and squeezed the girl’s breasts and tweaked her nipples, then smacked her bottom, much to the amusement of the other guests. Erika flinched, but didn’t move, as all of the slaves had been instructed, under threat of the rod.

  Ziad smiled at his own astuteness. Erika was the most compliant of the older slaves, which is why he had put her first.

  “Bigger breasts than any of my wives,” Tekawati said, to hoots and catcalls. “One fifty.”

  “She’s older than the girl my father recently married, but she’d be good around the house. And for my son,” said Bashir Alsadh, a wealthy industrialist from Bangladesh. “Two hundred thousand.”

  Tekawati came right back at him. “Two twenty.”

  “Two fifty,” bid Mazen Bardai, taking a suck of his apple-flavoured tobacco. “I’ve never had a concubine from Sweden.”

  There was a pause. Tekawati shrugged. There were plenty more slaves to be had.

  “Sold!” said Ziad. He wasted no time stringing out the bidding. Any slaves not sold would be used for transplants or as practice subjects for Dr. Xi and his team.

  A second girl was escorted in. She had a proud expression and walked holding her head high, despite her wide eyes betraying her fear. She struggled as the men attempted to remove her gown. One of the guards swished the bamboo across her buttocks twice. She gasped, but retained her feet and attempted to cover herself as the men dragged the gown over her head, earning her two more whips of the cane across the backs of her legs.

  “Why are you people doing this?” she yelled. “What sort of animals are you?”

  Ziad shouted at one of the guards “Gag her. Make sure she stays still.”

  Khalid smiled. This one was pretty, and would fetch a good price. His guests were enjoying the girl’s feisty struggle, clapping and cheering as the guards struggled to shove a gag in her mouth and restrain her arms behind her back. This would only add to her worth. The girl stubbornly glared above the guests at the wall of the majlis. Not as beautiful as Sheriti, perhaps, but the face was nicely-rounded, with sensuous eyes and full lips, a small, straight nose. Her forehead rose gracefully straight up to the hairline where her unrestrained hazel hair flowed over delicate sculptured shoulders. Her long legs, well-proportioned body and perfectly round breasts with tiny pink nipples would also add to her value. Which one was she, he wondered?

  “Brothers, our second item is presented for your enjoyment only,” Ziad called out in his auctioneer tone, wiping the spittle from his mouth. “Sophia is sixteen and, like Erika, was sourced in Mexico, where she was taken while on vacation. Sophia has been presold, so she will not be opened for bidding.”

  Khalid frowned. Sophia was reserved for his father’s lung transplant, and should not have been put on display. He was about to order Ziad to remove her when beside him, Bogdan Brazhlov, one of the new strongmen of the Russian Mafia, elbowed him and called out to the gathering.

  “What a waste!” Brazhlov, a hairy bull of a man, turned to Khalid. “But this one is too pretty to be presold, Khalid. It is not right! You must allow us to bid for her.”

  Khalid smiled but said nothing. He tried to signal Ziad, but his security chief was staring at the naked girl.

  Shinji Azakawa sat up on his cushions and said: “I agree. The girl is quite lovely. I offer one million dollars for her right now.”

  “What?” Brazhlov stood up. “One point two,” he countered.

  Other guests murmured their support for the girl to be auctioned. Khalid began to feel uneasy. Despite her beauty, the girl was nothing but two lungs waiting to be removed for his father. What was Ziad thinking displaying her like this?

  “Take her back to the compound,” Khalid ordered, signalling to Ziad to keep the auction moving. “Brothers, I apologise for our brother Ziad, who has unwittingly teased us. This girl is to be used in a week or two for my father’s lung transplant. We have been seeking a suitable donor for almost three years. I regret she is not available for sale. Next!”

  A teenage boy in chains was dragged into the tent and thrown to the ground. There were murmurs of disappointment as Sophia was taken from the tent, but the rebellion subsided, to Khalid’s relief.

  “Next we have Gregory, from Florida, aged thirteen, and Gregory’s sister, Carmel, aged eight,” said Ziad, as Rubi led a tearful little blonde, blue-eyed girl into the tent. Gregory was sold to the Russian and Carmel was sold to the Indonesian, Tekawati, for a little over one million dollars.

  The auction took little over an hour. The highest price paid was $1.5 million for Cindy, a thirteen-year-old from London with alabaster skin and Baltic blue eyes, whom Sheik Abidi purchased as a coming-of-manhood gift for his fifteen-year-old son.

  They took a fifteen-minute break while the slave purchases were finalised. Nine of the slaves would remain on Andaran pending forthcoming transplant operations. Every guest had his own aircraft parked waiting at Andaran Airport, and would fly out tomorrow with their slaves, and possibly in some cases, their selected model. After previous banquets, some of his guests had persuaded their model to accompany them and, in most cases, those girls were never heard from again.

  “And now, it is time for the Conversion Ritual,” Khalid said.
“Sheik Abidi will clarify the rules for our two new guests as we make our way along to the specially-prepared tent. The five of you who have chosen not to participate or observe will be taken back to the Princess Aliya.”

  “The Ritual has its genesis in the victory of Islam over the Crusaders,” Abidi explained as the group walked to the specially prepared tent. “When Islamic warriors defeated Christians in a battle, the males were given the choice of converting to Islam or being put to the sword. Females were forced to submit to the warriors until they accepted conversion or died. As you will see, the girl has been told that she can stop the ritual at any time by accepting Allah. In most cases, conversion is achieved within the first hour. Occasionally some choose not to save themselves.”

  Khalid ushered the guests participating in the ritual into the tent and joined Rubi and two other guests seated in the observation area. Those participating were dressed in a simple white modesty robe. There was a flurry of movement as a girl with fair skin and chestnut hair, dressed in a white robe, was dragged inside. She had a collar around her neck, and was handcuffed. She held an expression of defiance as she took in her surroundings, her protests muted by the duct tape over her mouth.

  Ziad threw his cigarette onto the sand and cleared his throat. “This is Danni, sixteen years old, from Boston, who was captured in Mexico with her friend Sophia, who you saw briefly earlier. This girl is a devout Christian and a virgin. And we have discovered that her father was one of the American occupiers in the first invasion of Iraq. Today we will avenge our Arab brothers! Participants will take the order as drawn.”

  The guests applauded enthusiastically.

  The girl’s handcuffs were removed and she was stripped of her robe before being lifted onto a specially constructed steel frame with a leather sling. She was suspended face down in a way that would allow the participant to swing her body back and forth, standing either between her legs or in front of her face. She was bound by her wrists and ankles, and the duct tape over her mouth was replaced by a device that prevented her closing her teeth.

  Bogdan Brazhlov positioned himself behind the girl. He raised his robe, declining to use the proffered condom. He was a big man—barrel-chested, no neck, and his extensively tattooed body was hairy as a gorilla. Khalid was repulsed. Brazhlov grabbed the girl’s hair and pulled her head back, causing her to gag on her bindings. He grinned as he thrust into her, the girl crying out in obvious pain. The Russian ignored her, clearly enjoying himself, grunting each time he rammed forward. After a few minutes he withdrew and shifted his position slightly. The girl shook her head in obvious panic, and when Brazhlov pushed again, the girl’s face contorted in pain and she let out a long scream. She kept howling each time he thrust, which seemed only to excite the Russian more. Blood began to drip onto the sand. After several minutes he bellowed in Russian and withdrew his withered penis. He squeezed the girl’s buttocks until she cried out again, then rejoined the others, blustering his satisfaction.

  As Mazen Bardai positioned himself, Khalid studied the girl’s face. Despite the obvious fear and the pain, the girl had once again steeled herself defiantly, and was mumbling to herself.

  Sheik Abidi spoke in a formal tone. “Danni, do you renounce all other faiths and accept Allah as the one true God?”

  The girl shook her head vigorously, and raised her voice as she tried to speak despite her mouth restraint. Khalid began to understand the words she was mumbling. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name...”

  “The ritual will continue.” Sheik Abidi nodded to the next man, Mazen Bardai.

  It was early yet in the ritual. He left the tent and found Ibrahim and the two men walked down the beach towards the jetty where the girl’s cries became less intrusive. “Ibrahim, what’s this about? Surely you should be in Dubai protecting him.”

  “I did not wish to leave your father’s side, of course. But he still has Abdul and Farouk guarding him, and they are good men. But your father has given me important information he wants to protect. He has been receiving threats, and asked that I come to you. He believes you, also, may be in some danger and need my protection. But he has also sent me here so that if anything happens to him, I will give you the information your father wishes you to have on his death.”

  “Who is making these threats?”

  Ibrahim rubbed his chin. “As you know, your father has many secrets, and many enemies from the past. He believes that whoever is making these threats is so powerful that no matter how many guards he has, they could kill him if they wish. He wants you to know that if anything happens to him, I will reveal details about a special cargo that he wishes to be entrusted to you. This secret cargo is the reason he financed the construction of the underground fortress here.”

  “He told me as much. But he was waiting until he came to inspect the facility we’ve built here to tell me the details.” Khalid stopped at the end of the jetty and turned to face Ibrahim. “Why hasn’t father mentioned these threats when I’ve called?”

  “He believes his phones are monitored. And there is another reason he sent me to you.” Ibrahim lowered his voice. “He wanted me to warn you personally that there may be a traitor on your staff.”

  ~ * ~

  13

  Mac stepped out onto the balcony of his room at the Negresco, overlooking the palms along the Promenade Des Anglais, beside the pebble beach and the Mediterranean Sea of Nice, on the Côte d’Azur. He handed Wisebaum the signed confidentiality agreement. The contract of engagement was inside on the table, still unsigned.

  “More paperwork here than enlisting in the army. You realise that just because I agreed to leave the army doesn’t mean I’m just going blindly along with some group I know nothing about. Even if you’re government, I’m not penning my name to any contract until I know what I’m signing on for,” he said. He had no reason to trust Wisebaum, given the circumstances.

  Wisebaum put on his round glasses. “Of course. And just for the record, Mac, I counselled against having you on my team. Nothing personal. Loose cannons are... loose cannons.”

  As if to emphasize the point, a squealing of tires came from the street and Mac braced for the crash that didn’t come. The men glanced at each other and chuckled. Wisebaum headed back inside and he followed.

  “So why am I here?” Mac asked.

  Wisebaum’s shoulders lifted a fraction. “For the chance to prove me wrong, for a start. You have... certain skills we could benefit from. Your field and weapons capabilities. And your olive complexion is easy enough to pass off in a crowd in the Middle East, where we mostly work. Your personality— slightly on the introvert side, I think. And the best spies are introverts, according to the experts at the Company. Anyway, the Director feels you have the qualifications he’s looking for to train our guys, who’re mostly a bunch of shiny pants.”

  “So you are CIA.”

  “Was.” Wisebaum checked the confidentiality agreement and witnessed the signature, then tossed the document into his briefcase. Sat down on the chair by the bed. “Okay, listen up. One of the first actions of the new Administration was to issue a Presidential Order establishing the Agency for Seizure of Terrorist Assets—ASTA. Our mission is to punish people who support terrorism by seizing their assets. The usual way is through DOJ and the courts. Takes forever, costs a fortune. Then you’re lucky if the assets haven’t been stripped. We don’t wait. ASTA takes money directly from bank accounts. That’s why we’re based outside the States, in Montreal. US laws don’t apply.”

  “You’re stealing from people who finance terrorists?”

  “Well, obviously they’re not going to pay willingly.”

  “Isn’t that illegal, even in Canada?”

  “When have we ever worried about what Canada thinks?”

  Mac shrugged.

  “Our targets use numbered accounts and Islamic banking. We’re authorised by the President to take up to twice what we can prove they’ve contributed to terrorist activity. We tran
sfer it from their accounts to ours.”

  “Like a tax collector.”

  Wisebaum nodded. “You got it. There are three hundred and fifty-seven targets on our hit list. Many of the names were on a hard drive in Bin Laden’s house in Abbottabad. But there’s still a lot of work to find their bank accounts and steal their funds. Since we began earlier this year, we’ve already recovered more than $150 mill, from just six targets.”

  “And how did you get involved?”

  “I was brought over from CIA. Made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. We’d been developing software for some years designed to breach firewalls and exploit network vulnerabilities. We mixed it with some code from an older program called PROMIS. We call our suite of applications TRAKCEPT, for track and intercept.”