No Girl Left Behind: A Jamie Austen Spy Thriller (THE SPY STORIES Book 5)

by Terry Toler

  I assumed these girls were there on their own volition and were well paid for their services. That didn’t mean I wasn’t sympathetic. It’s just that I didn’t normally risk my life for those types of girls. Why should I care about them more than they care about themselves?

  The easy thing to do was close the deal on the painting and get out of town. None of my business.

  I couldn’t.

  Now it was personal. The girl made it my business when she reached out to me for help.

  Curly would tell me to step away. He was my trainer with the CIA. He’s the one who made me who I was. A trained operative. A killer if necessary. Curly said I was the best he’d ever trained. But he’d say not to run a mission by the seat of my pants. Do reconnaissance. Surveillance. Have a planned-out strategy. Not that things don’t often go off kilter once you’re in the throes. You just don’t go into it that way.

  Alex would say for me to use my own judgment. Brad, my CIA handler, would say no way. A-Rad would be raring to go. A tie. Two for taking action; two against.

  What would I do? That wasn’t even a question. I always fell on the side of helping people. This woman needed help. She probably risked her own life to ask me for it. How could I walk away?

  I got out several paper towels, dipped them in water, and scrubbed off the writing on the mirror. I didn’t want to leave the message for anyone else to see. The Sheikh was a powerful man. If he were holding women against their will, then he was evil as well. Dangerous. Not someone to take lightly. He was even willing to bring these ladies out in public. That’s how confident he was of his hold over them.

  What were my options? I couldn’t act there at the gallery. My cover would be blown, and I had no exit or extraction strategy. Curly was right. I needed a plan.

  It’s settled.

  I knew what to do.

  I walked out of the bathroom and right up to the Sheikh and said, “If the invitation is still open, I’d love to join you for dinner.”

  A broad smile came on his face.

  I hoped I didn’t regret it.

  2

  Amina

  Outside Abu Dhabi

  Tribal Region of United Arab Emirates

  Amina Noorani’s name in Arabic meant safe and protected. The seventeen-year-old felt anything but. Darkness had fallen on the desert, and she was walking alone on the road between her work and her home.

  Her father was to blame. She’d just finished a twelve-hour work shift at a local hotel. Her seventh in eight days. The night before, her employer had kept her thirty minutes late. When he finally let her go, her al’ab―father, daddy, tribal patriarch, and elder―was outside in the parking lot, waiting on her. Furious that she had wasted so much of his time.

  “How is it my fault, Daddy?” she’d asked with tears building up in her eyes. One of the few times in her life she dared talk back to him.

  “You work too slow. You must’ve been slacking off.”

  “I wasn’t Daddy, I promise. He had more work for me to do than usual.”

  Which was true. Normally she just cleaned the rooms. That day, she had to help out in the kitchen and clean dishes for hours. She’d worked so hard, every muscle in her body ached. Her hands had blisters from scrubbing bathrooms with inadequate supplies, harsh chemicals, and an exacting boss. Worse than her own father, if that were even possible.

  “Tomorrow, you can walk home,” her father said. “That’ll teach you a lesson.”

  And that’s where she found herself now. Walking on a mostly deserted road, forcing her aching feet to put one step in front of the other so she could complete the five mile walk as quickly as possible. Of course, when she got home, at least two hours of chores awaited her. Maybe sometime after midnight, she could fall into bed, cry herself to sleep, and start the same arduous routine all over again the next morning.

  Car headlights suddenly appeared on the horizon, coming toward her. It passed by, stopped, changed directions, and began heading back in her direction. It pulled up next to her with the passenger side window down. She strained in the darkness to see who it was. If a woman, perhaps she could catch a ride.

  “Can I give you a ride?” a familiar voice said.

  “No thank you,” she said, and kept walking. The voice belonged to Waseem Akbar. A man who lived in her community but was from a different tribe. In the United Arab Emirates, generally known as UAE, most people were identified by the tribe they belonged to. Arab Skulls was another name for the tribal system. Members didn’t actually belong to tribes; they were born into them. Amina was part of Al Parsa tribe, a subtribe on the lower end of the powerful Ghazi tribe.

  He pulled up next to her again and said, “Come on. Get in. It’s a long walk.”

  The laws of her tribe stated that girls could not fraternize with boys of another tribe. Tribes in the UAE were segmented into four main social classes. Amina was part of the lowest class. While Akbar was in her same social class, he wasn’t a boy her father would choose for her.

  The car pulled up alongside, again interrupting her thoughts. This time she noticed three men in the back seat. She strained to see who they were. Since her face was partially covered to protect from the blowing sand, they probably didn’t know who she was.

  “It’s too far to walk,” Akbar said. “Get in. We won’t tell anyone. I’ll let you out before we get to the village.”

  Amina didn’t respond and kept walking, even though every part of her being wanted to accept the offer. But even talking to Akbar was against the tribal laws. A woman wasn’t allowed to converse with another man in public who was not a relative. Punishable by a hundred lashes. If she was lucky. Six months to a year in jail, if she wasn’t.

  More problematic was that one of the men in the back seat was married. Those laws were even stricter. If she were caught talking to a married man, she could be thrown out of her own tribe. Her father might disown her. With no tribe to provide or protect her, she’d become destitute.

  If a member broke the law, the elders dealt out their own punishment after the legal system was done with the violator. They were especially harsh on women.

  Many tribes had relaxed social norms, and women were given more participation in the workforce and education. Not so in her tribe. Marriages were arranged. She’d be forced to work these twelve-hour days until her eighteenth birthday to prove her worth to a potential husband.

  At eighteen, she’d have to quit to concentrate on marriage and raising children. Once that happened, for all practical purposes, she was a slave. Every aspect of her life would be controlled by her husband.

  The choice would be made soon. The quality of the rest of her life was based on that choice. If she was lucky enough to get a gentle and kind man, things might not be so bad. If she got someone like her father, she’d rather just shrivel up and die. Getting in the car with this man might ruin it all. Her future husband might consider her damaged goods even if nothing happened. Unfair, but how life was for women in her tribe.

  Amina had long since accepted her fate. She had no delusions about crusading for women’s rights. Some fought against the unfair treatment of women, and the consequences were swift and cruel. A number of women and young girls had been stoned to death in the village square. She and the other girls were forced to watch. The elders called it a deterrent. It worked on Amina. From an early age, she lived under the constant fear of doing something wrong, and she never once purposefully broke a rule.

  Shy and soft-spoken, her goal was to keep her nose to the grindstone and stay out of trouble. The only reason she was more educated than most women in her tribe was because of her mother, Samitah, who had secretly taught her the ways of the world from an early age. She’d taught her how to read and write, and Amina devoured every book she could find. To this day, her father didn’t even know the extent of Amina’s learning. He’d be furious if he did know. Something she didn’t understand.

  Her mom also drilled in her the importance of keeping the tribal laws.
The one warning that kept resonating in Amina’s mind at that moment was, a woman who is raped by a married man has committed adultery. The punishment is death.

  Why did that come to mind?

  Amina kept walking.

  She had a bad feeling about this.

  For whatever reason, the car was still behind her. Following at a slow pace.

  She glanced around to see if there was any place where she could hide.

  The road was desolate. She could see the lights of her village ahead, but she was still a couple miles away. The fields to the right and left were flat, with not even a rock or tree big enough to hide behind.

  She quickened her steps, even though her feet were crying out in protest. Her heartbeat pounded now. Tears escaped from her eyes, dampening the cloth of her hijab.

  She crossed to the other side of the road, so she was walking into the traffic. Away from the car. At least there, she could see it out of the corner of her eye. If someone came, she could flag them down. Except, there was no traffic. What she’d give for a car to suddenly appear.

  The car behind sped up. The racing engine startled her even though she expected it.

  Then it came to a sudden stop. Just ahead of her. Thirty or forty paces ahead. The tires screeched as Akbar slammed on the brakes.

  It suddenly accelerated backward. Toward her.

  Amina let out a scream.

  She jumped out of the way or the car would’ve hit her.

  Instinctively, she took off running. Faster than she’d ever run before in her life. A glance back confirmed her worst nightmare. Two of the men were out of the car, running toward her. The car sped up and was in front of her in no time.

  The other two men got out.

  Amina stopped running.

  The men behind stopped running as well but kept walking slowly toward her.

  Amina sat down on the road and put herself into a ball and sobbed.

  Resigned to what she knew would happen next.

  3

  Bianca

  Sheikh Saad Shakir’s house

  Halfway between Abu Dhabi and Dubai

  The drive to the Sheikh’s house for dinner took less than a half hour, and I arrived an hour early to get a lay of the land. Spying, by definition, was gathering information. We in the industry called it “intel.” Curly drilled in us the need to go into every mission with as much information as possible. Knowledge was power, he always said. At some point, information would save your life. It only had to save my life once to be worth the effort to gather it every time.

  Making a move to rescue Saad Shakir’s girl tonight wasn’t in the plans. But if the opportunity did present itself or I ran into trouble for some reason, I wanted to be prepared. Curly’s words echoed in my head. Don’t go into a situation blind. Know the exit points. The roads in and out. Assess the threats. Envision every possible scenario.

  Get the house floor plans if possible, I could hear him say in my head. Something which was possible.

  Alex, my husband, was the best computer hacker in the world. Within a few minutes, he found the floor plans to the Sheikh’s home through the internet. He didn’t say how, and I didn’t ask. More than likely he and his team hacked into the computer of Saad’s architect. After dating for four years and a year of marriage, I’d begun to take Alex’s skills for granted. AJAX now had more than a dozen hackers working for us back in Virginia. Combined with the resources of the CIA, we had the ability to reach anywhere in the world to execute a plan in short notice.

  Brad, our CIA handler, sent me satellite images of the sprawling estate that covered ninety-two acres. They didn’t show me much more than what I found by simply looking at the home on Google Earth. What he did send that I didn’t have and couldn’t get on my own was the Sheikh’s CIA file which was noticeably shy of information. I particularly wanted to know if Saad had any terrorist ties. A man of that wealth often made his money from drug smuggling and arms dealing. The Sheikh seemed to be running an honest operation and made his money through oil production.

  The worst that could be said about him was his obsession with partying and weakness for beautiful ladies. As I already knew, he always had to be surrounded by them.

  The only thing my surveillance efforts showed was that I didn’t have much to worry about on the outside. No guard gates. No local police presence. A couple of armed security guards walking around the outside was about it. One road in and out was well maintained and free of traffic.

  The main concern driving over there were the camels that often crossed the roads. I was driving a Lamborghini that I’d rented from a luxury car dealership in Abu Dhabi City. Any collision with a camel, and my money was on the camel coming out of it better than me.

  The car was something I never could’ve done while working for the CIA. With AJAX, it fit my cover perfectly. If I were going to play the part of a wealthy art dealer, then I could add the toys to make it look legitimate. Perks of the trade. I loved our new role with AJAX. Not just because of the car, but because it gave us the freedom to choose our own missions. Before, I’d never have gotten permission from Brad to have dinner with Saad and consider helping the French girl. Not with my flimsy amount of information. Brad would’ve argued that the risks were too great to operate a CIA mission in the United Arab Emirates to rescue a single girl.

  Now I got to make the decision. Alex was the only one I really had to run it by. I could pursue it or abort at any time. At this point, I saw no reason not to pursue it further.

  The main problem for me was on the inside of the house.

  Saad was inappropriate from the moment I stepped through the door. He welcomed me with a huge smile on his face and a drink already in his hand. With his free hand, he pulled me close to him, so our bodies touched and then he kissed me on both cheeks, his lips trying to brush mine as he passed from one side of my cheek to the other.

  I almost gagged from the excess aftershave.

  Disgusting.

  But I was prepared. This wasn’t the first time I’d been hit on, and it wouldn’t be the last. I’d endured worse. Although honestly, I preferred a combatant with a gun to one with grabby hands. Nevertheless, there was a purpose to the evening. A woman’s life was presumably in danger, and I was her best hope. She had no doubt endured more than I ever would. Restraint was the only thing preventing me from kicking Saad between the legs so hard, he’d never be able to use it again. Something I might’ve done if I didn’t want to protect my cover and also didn’t want to close on the painting.

  The French woman stood off to the side when I made my entrance which surprised me as soon as I saw her. I expected to see all four women from the art gallery. Perhaps even more. She was the only one. I sensed her nervousness from across the room.

  “Who is the beautiful lady?” I asked the Sheikh, as I extricated myself from his hand that gripped my waist. “I remember you from the art gallery.”

  I walked toward her as I said it.

  “Meet the lovely Bianca,” the Sheikh said proudly, like he was showing me one of his possessions.

  I kissed her on both of her cheeks. As I did, I whispered in her ear, “I can help you.”

  She nodded and looked away nervously, which told me all I needed to know. Bianca was the one who had written help me on the mirror in the bathroom at the art gallery. No doubt about it. I had a plan on how to communicate with her, but now wasn’t the time.

  The Sheikhs hand had already grabbed my arm and was ushering me out of the foyer and into the main living area.

  “May I have a tour of the house?” I asked, pulling away slightly. My way of doing inside reconnaissance. While I had memorized the floor plan, no amount of planning beat seeing it with my own eyes. Mostly, I was interested in where the other girls were. Did they live there? If so, which part of the house? Looking at the floor plans, they could be any number of places.

  “If I gave you a tour, we’d be here all night,” the Sheikh said with a smug grin.

  Th
e house was massive. From the blueprints, the total square footage was over sixty-thousand feet. It had fifteen bedrooms, twenty bathrooms, and a thirty-car garage complete with gas pumps. Not surprising, considering the Sheikhs primary source of income was oil and refining it. It also had six pools, eleven kitchens, two tennis courts, and a breathtaking view of the Persian Gulf which I could see from the large picture windows strategically placed across the entire back of the main living area.

  Under any other circumstances, I’d love to see the house just to see it, although the extravagance and wastefulness of it was as offensive as its owner. Considering the man was a part of a chorus who frequently condemned the excesses of the west. Pictures of the Sheikh’s house and cars would fit nicely in Webster’s dictionary next to the word hypocrite as examples of real excess.

  “I would like to show you my bedroom,” the Sheikh said next.

  He must’ve seen the revolting look on my face because his next words were, “I just want to show you the artwork in my suite.” He held his hands in the air in a surrender pose. “No other reason. I promise.”

  Truthfully, I did want to see it. From the blueprints, the master bedroom was more than eight thousand square feet. I was in no danger from the Sheikh. Even in his bedroom. I could break him in two like a toothpick if I wanted to. For now, I’d play along with the ruse long enough to close the deal on the painting tomorrow and figure out how to help the French girl. Especially since I had now committed myself by telling her I could help her. I honestly had no idea whether I could or not and wouldn’t until I knew what she needed help from.

  I had another thing to be concerned about. The Sheikh brought it up almost immediately.

  “May I pour you a drink?” he asked.

  I wouldn’t put it past him to spike it. My premeditated response was on the tip of my tongue. “I don’t drink,” I said.

  Not entirely true. I did have an occasional wine at dinner, and under normal business situations, I would have a drink with him. This wasn’t a normal situation. I was a married woman, in the home of a man who clearly had untoward intentions. For all I knew, he might be trafficking in women. The last thing I wanted to do was dull my senses with alcohol or give him the chance to knock me out with it.