Russell Twyce

Chapter 20 of Loki’s Trojan

Here Siam Without Remorse

‘I’m authorized to take you to a special training facility.’ Kareem had not extended the offer to the girl after all. ‘Your daughter is welcome to come along on our flight, but only to stay in the nearby city.’

As Tariq pulled his luggage from a lavishly decorated lorry, he recalled the invitation. The ex-cop hadn’t seemed overly disappointed when I told him Fatima left suddenly to tend a sick aunt.

[Osama bin Airlines has some state-of-the-art equipment.]

“We’re flying on that?” Tariq asked on seeing a chartered aircraft that could’ve been acquired as Vietnam War surplus.

“It’s slyly listed as carrying a cargo of vegetables.” Kareem bragged.

“That freight seems too valuable to risk in an antique plane like this.” Tariq muttered to himself as he ascended a wooden crate step to enter the seat-less cabin. Onboard, he sat on a pile of cargo netting, then closed his lids and tried to shut out the rattling take-off.

“Rivets pinning the plane’s skin are so loose that we may shed like an airborne snake.” The Iranian self-commented after the craft had lurched aloft. “I hope the bolts securing the wings aren’t similarly slack.”

[private_Chevron]The programmer pushed the airplane’s mechanical condition from mind by revisiting his final evening with his girlfriend.

‘I’ll wait in Karachi, until you know where that nearby city is.’ Fatima had offered. ‘You might need me and your computer handy.’

‘You’ll go straight to Toronto.’

‘Okay,’ the girl had her one condition, ‘but tonight is our last one for awhile and we’ll play by only my rules.’

‘Won’t we get complaints from the neighbors for our being obnoxious.’

‘We’ll be gone before any eviction orders.’ Fatima looked playfully quizzical. ‘Don’t you really mean obstreperous? They shouldn’t find us unpleasant and offensive but we will definitely be noisy and boisterous.’

‘I used the wrong word but you were persnickety in pointing it out.’ Tariq thought about her faultless command of English and extensive vocabulary. ‘How did you come by such an astonishing linguistic talent?’

‘My grandfather was American and my grandmother was East Indian. Both were well educated. My mother grew up speaking English and Hindi. She was abducted and lived in the Soviet Union where she spoke Russian. During my childhood we switched between her three primary tongues.’

‘Those are your best ones then?’

‘Yes, but living in other countries I picked up marginal ability in more.’

“We were certainly rambunctious enough to disturb folks living next door.” Back on the ramshackle flight and with a smile, Tariq’s memory skipped pleasurably to the last portion of the night.

[Bubblegum and duct tape keeps the parts flying united.]

I presume you referred to the airplane and not some kinky aerial sex techniques practiced behind the sacred gates of Asgård.

[Don’t be blasphemous. I’m not a good-standing member of the Æsir.]

I just provided you with ambrosia for your prurient thoughts.

[And given yourself puerile grist to prevent your mind from chewing through the assassination cud.]

“I was more surprised than she was.” Tariq recalled her reaction. ‘You sick, twisted bastard.’ He wondered whom was Zafira referring to? ‘Were my marital infidelity and my life only grizzly notches on your bedpost?’

“I’m certain she wasn’t talking to Kareem: Zafira gave no indications of having ever seen him before.” The programmer’s words were whispers but even a shout wouldn’t have carried far over the old aircraft’s noise. “I am so glad my Fatima will never see that remorseless killer again.”

“Bangkok?” Tariq emerged from his reverie as the plane clattered into an approach to the airport. Seen from the aircraft’s window, ‘the City of Angels’ was shrouded in an omnipresent haze of vehicle emissions. With canals randomly crisscrossing the city, it looked like lush tropical Venice.

[There were once more waterways and it was called Asia’s Venice.]

I suppose that’s a snippet I read somewhere and have since forgotten.

They had left Pakistan as cargo and they arrived as freight as well. An open-boxed transport truck met the plane on the ramp and the ten bags of produce unloaded themselves. Men sitting as uncovered cargo might raise suspicions if seen in North America, but here the sight was commonplace. As the vehicle trundled through Bangkok’s early traffic, he saw numerous people on the non-passenger parts of transports: Tariq even saw four Thai men riding a tanker-truck like it was a saddled water buffalo.

They entered a private road south of the main city of Bangkok but it soon came to a barricaded chicane and a security post. Thai guards, who awakened as the van snaked around the offset fences, gave an impression of this being a lavish resort. Inside the high chain-link fence, the grounds were tended but there were also sections of natural jungle. Doubtlessly, the water frontage on a thick channel of the muddy Chao Phraya River was a 4-star hotel at one time and the guest rooms were individual cabanas.

“That area is the private dwelling of our host,” Kareem nudged Tariq and indicated an upstream portion of the complex divided from the rest with a wall, “but I doubt you’ll be invited in to meet Osama quite yet.”

“He’s not in Afghanistan!” The programmer nearly dropped his bag.

[A matador in a turban has the NATO bull charging at only a red cape.]

“People assume the world’s most wanted man is holed up in a remote spot,” Kareem snickered, “but he’s hiding in a throng of the onlookers.”

…

“I wish I could say it good was to be back.” Katya gave her godfather a hug: she had switched identification after Fatima’s landing in Toronto.

“Let’s have a cup of Earl Grey and you can tell me all about your trip.”

“It was a long and lonely series of flights.” The female collapsed into a chair and she rested her tired head in her hands. “I fretted the whole way.”

“I didn’t mean just the journey back.” Sam set a cup in front of her and poured: he already had it made before she had arrived.

“I don’t even know where in the world Tariq is right now.” She stared into the liquid and the color reminded her of his skin. “When I learned of the assassination in Quetta, I felt a chill and immediately thought of him.”

“We didn’t talk much about this,” the godfather changed the subject: this one was obviously painful, “but I owe you a substantive amount of money in accumulated maintenance payments.”

“Okay?” Bemused, Katya looked up at his twinkling old eyes. Where does this topic come from?

She didn’t really care squat about money and especially at this moment, it was unimportant to her.

“Alas, but you’ve caught me rather short of funds.” Sam Levy tried to appear contrite. The programmer had phoned after her plane departed: he asked the forger to keep the girl’s mind as occupied as possible. “I used to pay part of my obligation to you and your mom in the documents I made.”

“There’s no hurry.” The girl was puzzled about where this was coming from or headed towards. She turned it around slightly, with a wink. “I am shy of a man right now and am more than willing to take it out in trade.”

“Oye vey!” Sam hooted. “My stiff corpse better end up with a stiffy-on or I’ll still be indebted to you, even after my very early death.”

“Alright, what else did you have planned?

“To young people, a decent education is worth more than wealth. If I teach you what I know—would you call us square?”

“Would you?” Katya asked excitedly.

“I’m far too near to mandatory retirement age to fear an apprentice opening up a shop in competition.” The antique forger was already well in advance of that number of years. “I don’t actually have to worry either: it would take both of your scrawny feet to fill even one of my shoes.”

On the comment, Katya pointedly looked at his footwear’s dismal state of disrepair. Her smug smile was a vicious retort that needed no words.

“I didn’t buy this building because I liked my neighbors.” Sam led to the alley entryway and moved aside a door-sized shelving unit: it swung on well-oiled hinges. “It was built in the mid-sixties and the owner thought surviving to see a nuclear winter might make for some great skiing.”

“This room is even below your cellar.” Katya estimated. The forger’s pupil was astounded at his ultra-modern computers and advanced gear. I suspected we’d be surprised—but I’m staggered beyond any fore-inkling.

…

How can Osama be here without being noticed? After stepping on the captain’s claymore mine of surprise knowledge, Tariq walked in a mist of frenetic mental activity. He was barely aware of being shown to his hut.

“Drop your bag,” Kareem held the door, “and we’ll go for a coffee.”

If the recognizable personage travels at all it would be in a limousine with shaded windows. After tossing his suitcase on the luggage stand, he took the proffered key and trailed along behind. It makes sense: anyone’s going to the Thailand capital to meet him, isn’t likely to arouse suspicions.

[It’s a secure keep with a moat and 10 million shield-maidens.]

A western-leaning population center is safe from being bombed to target only one man. Although, I’m not certain I would put much beyond the current American presidential administration.

From the room, the two strolled along a flagstone sidewalk bordered with lawns and shrubs. The twisting way had a few forks to the other guest rooms and circled past a tennis court, before arriving at the café. This was an open air dining area with a terrace over the water. A few Arabic men with female companions were sparsely occupying the tables.

“Is this place a type of school?”

“What we learn here is more valuable than education.” Kareem spoke guardedly. “It’s also a staging area with amenities for rest and relaxation.”

“My impression,” Tariq saw scantily clad Asian girls frolicking around a kidney shaped pool, “is that this retreat is in breach of Koran Laws.”

“This is where potential martyrdom,” Kareem signaled for service, “is edited from a rough sketch into Technicolor cinematography.”

[Osama’s soldiers come here to partake of earthly pleasures.]

Immorality is against the religious articles even when fighting a holy war. Tariq flicked his eyes to the relative safety of the menu. He needed a moment to decide what attitude to display.

“How about a drink?” The overweight commander asked. “If the bar in the coffee shop doesn’t have what you want,” he nodded over a shoulder at another building, “we’ll have it sent over from the lounge.”

“I’ll start with an orange juice and call it breakfast.” Tariq avoided the offer of liquor until he finished thinking. He looked at indicated structure.

Gables and peaks on the pitched roof were decorated with traditional Siamese carved spike accoutrements. Frosted glass doors opened a few times before their order arrived. Once was admitting a trio of single men: the other was as some emerged—each with a female date on his arm.
He was zoned and watching out while the jihad captain ordered the juice. Coffee for both and a tray of fruit had been brought over on spec.

“My mind was wandering,” the Iranian heard disjointed words and he realized Kareem had finished talking with the waiter and said something to him—he had missed it, “in trying to understand what I’m observing.”

“That’s understandable as this is your first time here.” The portly Al Qaeda man had also been absorbed in a study of the writer’s expressions. “After the rigors of our missions, some troops like female companionship.”

“Isn’t decadence what the Jihad is against?” Tariq sipped his coffee: in contrast to Afghanistan’s strong brews, this was like hot muddy water.

“The Koran tells men how they should behave and the official rules of personal conduct remain true to scriptures but here, adherence is up to each man’s personal choices. Our commitment to the cause brings us special dispensations and a soldier isn’t chastised for his off-duty behavior.”

“My one guess would’ve been this place was to test a man’s resistance to temptation but you’ve just confirmed that it isn’t the case.”

“If a man dies in a jihad,” Kareem explained a Koran principle, “his soul goes to paradise: despite how piously the warrior conducted his life.”

“I doubt many Mullahs would approve.”

“Some do.” The officer took a fork and speared a slice of watermelon. “Why should a soldier be denied some pleasures in life, when his death in service of Allah will offset all earthly sins anyways?”

[The root of human problems is in rationalizing wrong for right.]

The captain didn’t stop with one fruit sampling. He took bite after bite.

“That holds a certain common sense.” But it’s based on warped logic. Tariq considered the reasoning. If a jihad warrior had a heart attack while with one of these girls, would it count as a death in the throws of battle?

[Can a holy war be fought by impure troops?]

“Every Islamic man is responsible for his own decisions in life.” Tariq offered a platitude to avoid sounding either self-righteous or willing to debauch until he decided which to portray. I need to balance an illusion of Islamic fervor that brought me here—with being amiable enough to stay.

[Oarsmen who backstroke are tossed from the longboat.]

“Osama has provided houris,” as the jihad man was finishing the last of the fruit, the programmer summed up what he was witnessing, “to grant the thousand-year orgasm ahead of death’s reward.”

“In life,” Kareem laughed and some honeydew juice dribbled down his whiskers, “that’s far beyond a normal man’s stamina.”

“I still taste exhaust fumes from the trip.” Tariq’s tongue licked around the inside of his mouth. “I need to brush these diesel filters off my teeth.”

“I’ll stop by your room later and we can visit the lounge together.”

[This place is as insidious as a cult.]

“Yes, disenfranchised Arabic young men gravitate to the Jihad in hopes of changing the world. Yet they love life and really don’t want to die.” As he meandered to his billet, his vocalization was an unintelligible mumble: it was just for himself and his soul rider. “After the inductee’s urges have been indulged there is doubtlessly indoctrination. They come to realize the way to offset their sins and gain paradise will be to die when instructed to.”

[Hence, there is no shortage of volunteer for suicide bombs.]

“The Al Qaeda organization has spoiled their chances of eternal reward in any other way. This terror sect takes brainwashing to a lower plateau.” The Iranian arrived back at his bungalow. “First they help the conscience to get dirty and then launder it with propagandized detergent.”

[You’ll have to soil your clothes too, and put them into the hamper.][/private_Chevron]

“I don’t want to think about that quite yet.” Tariq stretched out on the coverlet and put his hands behind his weary neck. One or more of the 911 terrorists may have slept and sinned in this very bed. He watched a skink run along the upper portion of the teakwood wall and his imagination gave the creature the wings and fuselage of a 767 jumbo jet.

“That lizard is clever.” The Iranian watched the creature scoot over to a fire protection device mounted on an upper wall molding, and then skitter across to the ceiling and hide in the light fixture. “Flies are drawn to the bulb and they end up in his hungry gullet.”

Wait a second, his eyes backed up, smoke detectors don’t work there. A corner between a ceiling and wall is a dead air space. To do its job best, the unit needed to be on the flat of the ceiling and preferably at mid room. Is that a lens in the center? Again, this was at odds with his fire services training. A detector used a lens and a mirror but they were internal, to look for smoke particles inside the unit. That’s a crafty surveillance camera.

The scaly creature had now secreted itself away from sight, but the man realized that his entire room was under observation.

[Are skinks reptiles or amphibians?]

“One species is a homo-sapient and it has a hyper-active mating urge.” Under scrutiny or not, the long journey caught up and he closed his eyes. Kareem knew what was here and he knows how it will be to his benefit.

[private_Chevron][He wants leverage on you—set on Osama’s fulcrum of vice.]

…

“You may want to see this.” Katya hollered out: Sam had just flushed the toilet. “Someone just tried to assassinate the American President.”

“Did he kill him?” The old man shuffled faster than his frail legs could safely move. He cut a corner sharply and cracked an elbow on the wall.

“Be careful!” The girl watched Sam quicken his pace after the impact. With eyes wide, the forger leaned towards the picture tube. He’s so enrapt that I’m worried he’ll fall. She took his hips in her both hands and guided him to sitting on the sofa beside her. The two watched the breaking story out of Akron, Ohio. Is this the season for assassinations?

“The shootings at a rally are still occurring.” The anchorman’s voice was tense as visions of carnage flooded across the screen. “This graphic footage is live and viewer discretion is advised.”

‘Bang!’ The view panned to an unfurled banner fluttering in a breeze. Words were boldly lettered. ‘Shiva’s Messenger has spoken’.

“Finish it boy!” Sam was so engrossed in his viewing that he forgot he wasn’t alone. “You’ve said Shiva—so now you have to kill him!”

Sam knows what’s really happening here! Katya had watched the news with interest. Now, the more riveting drama was on the couch beside her.

The final shot of the day, at least as far as the TV covered it live, was a bullet aimed at the president, that struck a female Secret Service agent.

“How could you possibly miss him?” Sam Levy gripped his face with both hands. Suddenly, but much too late, he remembered he wasn’t alone. The old man turned to face the inevitable questions.

“Who is Shiva?” Katya looked accusingly into his guilty eyes.

“The name Shiva,” Sam Levy withered under the girl’s stare, “hasn’t been said aloud in a long time.” What can I safely tell her?

“It’s been chanted plenty often enough. My mother instructed me in Tantra and the Lord of the Dance is a very important figure in our faith.”

“Your mother was a follower,” Sam nervously laughed at the absurdity of so much happening that he was still unable to explain to her, “and even a precursor of Shiva in more ways than you could possibly guess at.”

“And?” Katya urged for an explanative follow-up. “You can’t stop now after dropping that ultra-tantalizing tidbit!”

“And yes, I do know who the shooter in Akron is. I may as well admit it because that was so instantly apparent.” He put a consoling hand on the young woman’s knee. “But, I also made a blood vow.”

“It all involves that one pledge to my father.” The girl’s mind shuffled her prior hand of information in with some new cards. “Whoever that was in Akron must’ve been featured in the pictures you wouldn’t show me.”

Sam tightened his lips and refused answering her correct supposition.

“There were snapshots of my mother, father and me in the collection.” Her mind forged a next link in the chain of logic. “My family has another member.” She glared accusingly at his stoic face. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

…

In the evening, a rap on his door ended Tariq’s after-travel nap.

“Don’t sleep the whole night away.” Kareem’s affable grin turned to one of humor on seeing the man with bed creases down the side of his face.

“Give me a second for a bracer shot of Blue Whiskey.”

“Alcohol?”

“I was referring to mouthwash and I spit it out instead of swallowing.” The programmer scurried to the washroom and gargled while examining the lines on his cheek that were caused by sleeping on rumpled bedding. I can’t do much, but wait until my blood circulation smoothes them.

“Those are rails,” Tariq joked, “for a train of my slumbering thoughts.”

“We can switch tracks here,” the squad leader took a different fork on the walk, “for a shorter distance to the lounge.”

This route took the two men near the entrance to Osama’s private living area. The buildings there matched in style to the ones accessible to the rank and file troops, but a cinderblock wall had been recently erected. The one break had a wrought iron gate, flanked by armed Arabic guards.

Arriving at the door observed earlier, Kareem opened it and ushered the programmer into the air-conditioned room. They took seats in wicker basket chairs near the corner, and Tariq looked around.

A hollow oval bar was ringed with stools and the female bartenders in the center were all working topless. Along one mirrored sidewall, a long narrow stage had a wide selection of females dancing in bikinis. The end farthest from the door also had a stage, but chrome bars fronted this one and the girls there, were performing in the nude.

Besides the women on the two stages, a number of others in bikinis or skimpy clothing circulated the room or sat in the empty lounge chairs. Tariq noted most of the men already in seats, had a female or two at their sides—or in their laps.

“I neglected to ask what happened to Fatima’s mother.” Kareem asked.

“My wife,” Tariq paused while composing an appropriate answer: the truth obviously wouldn’t work here, “passed away quite some time ago.” Why did I waste time sleeping before deciding how to run this play out?

“The Kingdom of Thailand is called the land of smiles,” the grin that Kareem flashed was intended to nudge the girls into turning up the alluring routines, “and the people here are certainly accommodating.”

[Would they be so hospitable if they knew who lived here?]

“I’m stunned that the jihad operates around here.” Tariq remarked as he viewed the entertainers. The women rhythmically shuffled and their eyes were continuously darting. Many are covetously looking at this table.

[You and Captain Puffy are the only unaccompanied males.]

“It shows the brilliance of our leadership,” Kareem beamed as if the complement directly reflected on him too, “but the location isn’t quite as mismatched as it might seem. South Thailand has a strong and politically active Muslim community. The City of Bangkok also has areas that are primarily Arabic, so our activities can blend in.”

“The nation is also bordered by some Islamic countries.” Tariq added. “I see the connection.” I also see what I must do: I have no other option.

“The command facility here, doesn’t directly support the insurgency in Thailand but this part of Asia is definitely on our to-do list.” The squad leader’s frustrated eyes scanned the girls to find most were focused on him instead of Fatima’s father.

I assume Bijan Kiani know what this place is about: he would not have invited a journalist here. While Kareem nattered, Tariq’s mind chattered. This horny Arab’s clear-thinking brain should’ve twigged to that.

[Freya’s full mooning dazzle-blinded him.]

“I was hoping to see you suitably attended before leaving to submit my reports.” With a cock of his head, Kareem offered a visual hint aimed at the females, his guest, or more probably both.

“I’ll be just fine.” The programmer refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing his nefarious scheme come to fruition—in his presence. Patience is a virtue seldom found in many police departments either.

[You do have to select a companion though.]

“Then I’ll consult with my superior now.” Kareem leaned forward in the low chair and stood. “If you’re here later, I’ll join you. If not, have a wonderful time.” He winked. “Everything here is free.”

[His thobe isn’t even free. It’s stuck in the crack of his butt.]

That’s not a flattering view either. The Iranian chuckled as the hefty man walked away: material wedged in between his ass cheeks had his huge legs flopping like a pair of beached dolphins trapped under a canvas sail.

With amusement from the sight still on his face, the programmer swung his gaze to the arrayed courtesans. Many had eyes turned to the departing Arab and they displayed expressions ranged from disappointment to mirth.

“Kareem isn’t a prime physical specimen.” Tariq muttered into his non-alcoholic drink. “The ladies must receive an activity bonus.”

[You’re not exactly in the hot young stud category anymore either.]

I feel like I’m shopping in a meat aisle. A weight of selection pressure was suddenly as palpable as a cold weather front moving in. But a rib eye steak doesn’t wink and try to look extra lean and tasty.

“Perhaps I should gear my pick to the types the other men here have?” Tariq mumbled as his eyes evaluated. Common features were slender and buxom. He also noted that women Arabs chose, used heavy eye makeup. Alike to the black mascara that Fatima wore.

[Freya was obviously aware of what appealed to Islamic males.]

“But I’m more North American and other than on Fatima, it isn’t what I prefer.” He abandoned his copycat idea and turned back to his task. “The girls are all lovely: I could outdo Kareem’s scheme by taking the lot.”

[Our physique is no longer eighteen-years-old.]

“I haven’t decided if I’m actually doing anything with one or not yet.” His panning kept returning to one Asian girl with soulful eyes.

[Osama’s candid camera sent the script from platonic to pornographic.]

“I swore I would never pay for sex again.” Tariq grumbled.

[I see a moldy memory box in here marked do not open.]

He recalled the frosty Edmonton evening. A streetwalker had looked attractive when shrouded by ice fog. Retrospectively, I should’ve seen it as indicative of frigidity: she turned out far colder than the winter weather.

A different picture of bruises and pasty skin emerged from the wraps. Her attitude had also made a 180-degree turnabout when cash transferred. Her mouth’s machinegun emptied a rapid–fire clip of pre-coital rules. It started with no touching and ended with talk of a double condom process.

[Your memory file doesn’t show the promised happy ending.]

I gave her the best possible climax—by sending her away before we even undressed. The actual sex act would’ve only been depressing.

As the Iranian’s gaze lingered, the girl’s almond shaped liquid brown eyes twinkled beneath bedroom lids and seemed to ask—do you want me? He nodded, and watched her gracefully exit the stage and walk to him. Her steps were tiny like a geisha’s and they set her body parts in fluidic motion.

“Handsome man.” She took Kareem vacated chair. “What you name?”

“Ah.” The programmer’s core brain program hit an error sub-routine. Nubile females switch male thoughts from cerebrally based to pheromone inspired and the intellect drops into negative integers—that don’t compute.

[That’s why they call you computer types—geeks.]

“Ah,” she said the easy name and smiled, “I Pun.”

“My name is Tariq.” He corrected.

“Taalee,” She tried to wrap her linguistics around the name but the Thai language hadn’t provided sufficient training in the ‘r’ and ‘q’ sounds.

“Tariq.”

“Taaleek.” She tried again to mimic him without success.

“Close enough,” he chuckled, “and your name is Pun.”

“Pun.” It was her turn to try correcting the pronunciation. The name sounded as pun, a wordplay joke, but there was an inflection difference.

“Pùn.” The Iranian attempted it again but his enunciation to her ear was as imprecise, as her rendition of his was to him.

“My name P-L-E. Like apple.” Her accent made it into ap-pun.

“I see that’s where we hit a cultural wall.” He laughed. Further talk on it, determined that the fruit apple, is called by the Thai word appun.

“Where you from?” The Thai woman in the green bikini asked.

“Canada.” He felt her fingers idly playing with the hair of his forearm. That feels quite nice, and strangely comfortable coming from a hooker.

[Do you judge all archers on the targets of one?]

What if they all use identical arrows and train in the same school?

“I come Issan.” That was a province in Eastern Thailand.

Over the following few moments, they spoke in simple sentences to exchange some small talk. Then, the exterior door opened to admit three of Kareem’s men. The sight of those reminded the programmer that he didn’t wish to be here when the commander got back.

“Well Pun,” he turned to her, “what do we do?”

“Up to you.” The girl blew the words into his ear.

Tariq awakened at about 2 am when Pun tiptoed to the toilet. His hand touched the warm place on the bed she had left and he smiled contentedly.

[Thailand is an awfully long bowshot away from Alberta.]

Tariq recalled his query regarding an archery academy. An accepting Asian society taught Pun to feel pride in whatever she does and it shows. Westerners look judgmentally on the sex trade. A hooker feels the negative attitude from other people and translates it into lousy customer service.

[Freya twangs a fine string too.]

It’s difficult thinking of her as a courtesan. A memory of Fatima had him considering staying awake, but he fell into dreams of her instead.

…

“You had a good time last night.” The jihad captain joined Tariq at the table where he was breakfasting with Pun.

If he watched the surveillance feed from my room, the older Arabic man looked up from his eggs and toast, then that was not said as a question.

“Leave us.” Kareem’s words were not barked but they were meant as a firm order. He waited until the Asian girl had left her unfinished bowl of spicy rice mush. “I received no instructions to bring you here: I did so on my own recognizance. My belief is that the jihad needs men of intellect.”

“You authorized my being here?” The programmer held a poker face: the email he had forwarded from Bijan Kiani comprised a direct order.

“You’ve been doubtlessly unaware of my stature within the command structure. I lead only a squad, but it is an important unit that is different from the others: our final duty in Quetta surely proved that fact. I brought you, in hopes of recruiting you into my special team.”

“I’m not a soldier.”

“Every man is when his need arises.” Kareem countered. “However, my uses for your talents would be a wide range of duties. I envision your continuing to write, while we support your research travels.”

“While reporting my coincidental findings to you, for your fast action.”

“Precisely,” the captain’s lips curled up, as a crocodile’s mouth in lieu of a full smile, “and as dire circumstances arise, you would also be one of my elite troops. I don’t bestow this honor lightly: you’ve impressed me.”

Fatima’s ass impressed him, Tariq thoughtfully stroked his chin, and he wants me as the grease to slide him between her thighs.

[But Officer Shakedown has you in handcuffs.]

“I know that.” The programmer’s comment was appropriate for either Loki’s observation or Kareem’s statement.

“So far, you’ve experienced only potion of this facility. Give my offer serious thought while you see of the rest. You slept through the discussion period yesterday, so I hope you will attend today’s talk,” the commander chuckled ironically, “on living a life of purity.”

“The ambiance of this place is compelling in ways that I didn’t expect.” Tariq forced his face into appearing contrite about his enjoyable night.

“I steel my body against such distractions with my resolve to serve Allah.” The rotund Arab’s smug smile showed that he believed he scored a point. The father had just seen the suitor’s worthiness for his daughter in contrast his own weakness. “I’m saving myself for an admirable woman.”

“That must be excessively difficult,” it required a strain for Tariq to put some fake conviction into his compliment, “but it certainly is noble.”

Kareem soon left on a pretext of having an important duty. The Iranian returned to his room: where the Thai girl was patiently waiting.

“I with Taaleek,” she explained, “until not want more Pun.”

…

“What do ancient reprobates do,” Katya asked, “for fun?” While Tariq had been enjoying his breakfast in Bangkok, she and Sam Levy ate supper.

The old counterfeiter looked up, and his inquiring eyes blinked.

“Is that from deafness?” she laughed, “or in asking for a punch line?”

“I still have my hearing,” he chuckled with her, “your query did sound as the start of a joke though.” Sam mused for a few seconds. “Just waking up to find I’m still breathing is the thrilling start of a fun-filled day.”

“My tone was impertinent,” the young woman stood to gather the dirty dishes: suddenly, she had another scheme, “but my question was serious.”

“My response sounded flippant,” the forger’s eyes followed her until his neck couldn’t swivel more, “but it was truthful: life is fun on its own.”

“Do you live partly in old memories,” Katya tossed utensils noisily into to sink: it covered her other actions, “to supplement your daily life?”

“I guess I do.” Sam hadn’t really thought of it consciously. The sound from behind was a faucet filling the kitchen sink. “Past times live in me.”

“Then a semblance of youth,” she walked back into sight—buck-naked, “is in acquiring some new remembrances, by actually having real fun.”

“What aren’t you wearing?” The forger’s eyes bulged.

“Did I forget something?” She acted as if fully clothed, by dusting off an imaginary pair of slacks and craning to look behind her body.

“Ha!” Sam Levy hooted. “My dirty old man side may undress with his eyes but a god-fatherly prude half, needs to put your under-frills back on.”

“You know,” her playacting imagined clothes was over: the girl stood in front and leaned over to grip the back of his chair, “that a godfather—is not actually related kin.” She moved her chest to slap one bare breast and then the other, against the sides of his rather large nose.

“Uh—.” A thousand offset printers in his brain cranked off sheets but none told of the right glib words to say. The nude young woman also was overlaid onto hundreds of scenes in his memory. She seemed to be pulling a bygone Sam from the pages of his history, to give youthfulness in today.

“Does this squirt fresh grease,” for an ultra-long moment, a tantalizing female stood above and glowed at a rapturous expression on his youthful seeming face, “into some rusty old ball bearings?”

“It’s a new memory.” He breathed. I feel as twenty years old! Letting an old man’s imagination fondle her, was the young woman’s selfless gift.

“If you ever find you are up to play,” she added coyly, “I’m game.”

…

Surely some must find the dichotomy here unsettling. Tariq had been in this compound for three days. He had brought Pun back to the lounge: not to trade her in for another, as some Jihad men did, but for companionship. Having a girl along also precluded his being the object of female scrutiny. He looked at Pun: she smiled: her teeth were white as a kitchen appliance.

[Don’t look a gift whore in the mouth.]

The Iranian nearly laughed aloud at the twist on a well-worn platitude. Yes, it is hard to rail about gambling—when you’ve just scored the jackpot.

The programmer’s mind resumed its mud-wrestle with Kareem’s offer. He didn’t have a choice on whether to accept it or not, but in voicing the affirmative decision, his conviction may sound as hollow—because it was. His policeman’s instincts might see though my insincerity. That could be even worse than a flat refusal. He had seen the commander several times since: Tariq had managed to stall, but the man’s patience was wearing thin.

They returned to the room early but the Iranian didn’t feel sleepy. He went out for a stroll and found his way to the water.

“I should throw a bottle note into the river.” Tariq skipped a stone.

[Then the U.S. Marines may come and save you.]

“So I could spend the next few years in Guantanamo Bay as a special detainee being tortured without charge or hearing?” He meandered along a tropical river shore. My life here is confined but luxuriously so. It was a sharp contrast to the expected American treatment of a presumed terrorist.[private_Chevron]

“History could conclude,” the Iranian’s dusk river walk had started at the downstream fence and progressed up to the inner sanctum’s wall, “that Afghanistan and Iraq were cases of NATO warmongers assaulting people who were just defending their homes, loved ones and way of lives.”

[It depends on whose writer pens the accepted annals.]

“I still can’t find total validity in the jihad’s terror campaign either.” Tariq stooped for another rock, and from under a bough, he spied Osama.

[Speak of the scruffy-bearded devil.]

“He’s gone out for a breath of the mild evening air.” An outside bend in the channel allowed the programmer to see the courtyard. The tall Saudi had stepped onto a central patio that was accessible from both wings.

[A fly on the wall might hear what he is muttering about.]

“A frog on a drifting lily-pad could observe the interior.” The Iranian’s voice was barely louder than a breeze in palm fronds. The man who lost his family in 911 faintly heard the FBI’s most-wanted fugitive murmuring.

[A fish in an aquarium can see well enough, but it can’t overhear.]

“A picture is worth a thousand words,” Tariq looked at the moonlight sparkling on the Chao Phraya River: big leafy clumps of hyacinths drifted down towards the delta, “and a single snapshot might be all that I need.”

As his continued stroll neared the bar, he stopped: figures emerged.

[Porky the Arab isn’t as chaste as he would have Dad-in-Law believe.]

There’s quite the sandwich. Tariq could see the beefy Saudi was bound for his quarters, and had an emaciated Caucasian woman under each meaty arm. Two thin slices of white bread wrapped around a thick slab of ham.

[While a vision Freya dances in his pickle.]

[private_Chevron]The Iranian slipped into his bed, and his Asian cohabiter squirted out.

It was about 2:00 AM and Tariq still had insomnia. He stared at light echoes on the ceiling while thinking about his dilemma then forced his mind onto a more appealing notion. A sexy female will soon to emerge from the bathroom. He heard a toilet flush and waited.

Pun has been in there long enough for any normal bathroom function, and in fact for all of them consecutively—even the lengthy female types.

Tariq stealthily moved to the lavatory door: it was open a crack.

“What are you doing?” The Iranian pushed his head into the light. Pun sat cross-legged in the shower stall and her cupped hands held a cell phone.

“I wait UK boyfriend phone.” She confessed in a guilty voice. “Him send money each month for Pun not do.”

“He calls to check up on his investment,” the programmer wagged a playfully reproving finger, “but Pun is a bad girl anyways.” This dove’s fine flying won an ardent fan—and he wants to clip her wings.

“A little.” It sounded as ‘a lit-tun’ with her tle, the same as ple in pun.

“Come to the room and be comfortable about waiting.” He offered. “If your other guy calls, I won’t make a sound.”

They were back in bed: awake and naked—naturally, a bit of nocturnal frolic commenced. The Oriental woman climbed atop the Arabic man and straddled his hips. Her cell’s ring-tone interrupted a passionate embrace.

Pun snatched up her phone from under a pillow. She settled down onto his body: they still held genital affiliation. The girl briefly closed her eyes, to get into a character. “Hello.” She smacked her lips to sound as having been roused with a dry mouth. “I awake.” She continued her conversation with a sponsor who had obviously ignored who she really was.

[Is this the mirror image of phone sex?]

Too right! Tariq visualized a female operator wearing frumpy clothes and knitting—while moaning and seductively talking. Pun chastely chats with an unaware boyfriend, but in the unseen background—here we are.

[A trickster god wants grab the phone and laugh into it.]

No way! Tariq kept his promise and didn’t speak. She’s a consummate method actress in an Academy Award caliber performance, but the script and onscreen action are as mismatched as a poorly dubbed foreign film.

The overheard conversation also spoke volumes on the so-called plight of ‘all’ sex trade women. Prostitution wasn’t a hardship for Pun. She had an easy route away from the life but simply chose not to opt out.

“I talk Buddha now.” After the call and all, Pun sat up onto her knees.

This portrait is soul moving. The serenity of her faith shone as a halo. Is anything more beautiful than a woman or a child knelt in prayer?

[It makes you want to provide what she’s asking for.][/private_Chevron]

You’re the god: I can’t offer absolution.

[God can’t forgive.] Loki’s inner voice was wry. [The gift of freewill makes it impossible for a soul to do anything requiring any atonement.]

That statement invalidates half of the Koran, and the Bible too.

[You also have freewill and can immerse yourself in a role.]

Yes, Pun’s masterful acting here has shown me what I need do. I’ll wholeheartedly accept Kareem’s offer, only to cast it aside when I can.

Chapter 19 of Loki’s Trojan

Checkmate in a Queen’s Rookery

“You are like shrieking cloth hawkers in a Marrakech market.” Ghazi bin Omani cursed as the principle officers of various attacked companies traipsed into the boardroom, in a piecemeal throng, to display endless bolts of bad news. “According to each, new money should be applied as suture thread to stitch up my rent empire.”

“Wall Soft’s bank account is a awfully big pair of scissors.” The Vice-President of bin Omani Transport had entered with the first bearer of woeful tidings but he had stayed on. The sub-company Rajah Fakir was in charge of wasn’t affected by today’s activities as Ghazi had secured a 51% percent interest in that one in the proxy war’s opening shots.

[private_Chevron]“It will take more than money to bring me down!” By only shortly past midday in downtown Manhattan, the beleaguered sheik looked as if he’d just climbed off a trans-Sahara caravan camel.

“Bob’s queen pulled a new gambit.” Rajah noted that the sheik seemed to like chess analogies. “He pushed forward a row of day-trading pawns by short selling to trigger a price slide. The tiny players leaped in to make a quick profit and they short sold too.”

“But it was a sly ruse to sacrifice them.” Ghazi took over describing. “The Wall Soft brokers were already replacing shorts during the plunge.”

“When the queen moves forward,” Rajah had read some chess books after gaining rapport with his temperamental boss, “the opponent needs to protect in all directions.”

“Shareholder stop-loss delimiters brought even more shares into the market so Bob took units into his portfolio at a rock bottom,” bin Omani lamented, “but with many small owners whipsawed out of the market, my buffer was weakened. I’ve had to buy just to bolster my own holdings.”

“The day traders also had to make up their short sells.” Rajah added. “Your buys weren’t quite so inexpensive as Wall’s.”

“It wasn’t just once. It’s been six times so far today!” Ghazi took off his headdress: it was as if the Aswan dam broke to flood the Nile Estuary onto his forehead. “Wall’s queen has threatened five separate companies today and hit my bin Omani Holdings entity twice.”

“She’s likely drained the day-traders’ brokerage accounts so the board is now devoid of any more pawns.”

“Probably devoid,” Ghazi corrected, “but after gambits I’ve faced so far, I’m not discounting Bob Wall’s business acumen anymore.”

“A grandmaster’s skills aren’t honed by playing against weaklings.” Rajah Fakir smiled ironically.
“Sly Bob fox had the world believing he was just a lucky ugly ducky.”

A special phone tone sounded from Ghazi’s adjoining office: he shooed his new confidant away and grabbed the handset on the fourth ring.

“~Bob Wall’s star player is Collin Hersker.” An Arabic speaking male voice passed information.

“~They call him The Asshole due to his sexual preferences. He’s gay.”

“~I’ve been calling him Bob’s queen,” A sardonic smile showed through bin Omani’s full beard, “~and he actually is one. That’s rich.”

“~Do you have any other orders?”

My bishop is too far from the play. Ghazi pondered while looking at compiled numbers from the day’s warfare. I really don’t want to bleed this much red ink again tomorrow.

“~I need a rental knight.” The sheik gave the details and then hung up.

Though he watched the Wall Street board until the final bell, there was no further action. At the close, he sat in his darkened room to brood.

“Even if Hersker the homo hides in a closet, I still have debts to settle.” Driven by a wafting smell, Ghazi tucked his nose down to his shoulder. “I stink worse than the downside of a horse blanket.” He had never perspired so much in a day before.

“I have to think moves beyond the early match.” The sheik’s nostrils flared as he pulled a deep draft of his pungent smell: it was as if the stink was an unguent that invigorated. “This proxy fight will continue until I buy out Wall Soft. His cash won’t purchase him power but my influence can get me the wealth I need to take him.”

…

[/private_Chevron]

‘My dearest Bijan.’ Kiani noted the girl had upped the affection in her greeting: he read on. ‘I was tickled by your cleverly written response. I read it while I was in my bed—and my hands strayed under my covers.’

“She is really one hot little thing!” Bijan left off his reading to eagerly race ahead to the new photo she sent.

In this image, the female was only wearing a skimpy red bikini. She was posed reclining in a deck chair, possibly on a hotel room’s balcony, and her one hand was waving. A bathing suit, or was it a bra and panties, suggested casualness, but her hair was styled atop her head and she wore a gold mesh veil—attached to delicate basket of gleaming metal woven into her coif. He saw her as an elegant Islamic princess, stripped of a gown.

The bulk of the letter held more titillating flattery, then his loins reacted strongly to the final paragraph.

‘Our relationship is growing ever more intimate, to my great pleasure, so I suggest we should carry our communication away from your business. Send me an email from your most secure private account. Then I can feel safe to entrust you with my deepest emotions and my private photos.’

Editor Kiani idly stroked his crotch as he imagined what those pictures would look like. He did have one ultra secure email account, but he didn’t normally use it for his personal reasons.

“It is an account where my wife would never see my digital fling.” Was there a possibility this could develop into a flesh encounter as well? Just that prurient thought swayed the Iranian man’s balance. He composed and sent an enthusiastic answer to her request—from his private mailbox. [private_Chevron]

…

“Welcome aboard the squid.” Bernard greeted his guest.

“It’s big.” The helicopter took up but a quarter of the flight deck. “My wives might be envious.” On those words, Ghazi stooped over and went under a spinning rotor to assist three of his favorites from the aircraft.

The young women bin Omani brought with him were each stunning. One was a Nordic blonde, the second an Irish redhead, and the brunette out last was Czech. The hair color was different but all three shared alabaster white skin, and they hurried from the deck to a shady salon to protect those flawless complexions.

“Come this way.” Stryker hadn’t helped or even stood near the rotor’s circle. He seldom rode in helicopters, and certainly wouldn’t enter one that wasn’t completely shut down. Bernard shuddered on a vivid memory. To protect Ghazi’s wives from the San Diego sun, he led them to the spacious forward deck by an interior route.

“I wasn’t aware of your having so large a yacht.” The sheik remarked. Inwardly, his comment differed. Squid is an apropos name for Bernard’s ship: it has many slippery tentacles and inks the water to hide its doings.

“Squid is probably the world’s largest private pleasure craft.” Stryker brought his party outside to where four sun-bleached blondes were playing volleyball: Bernard had ordered his crew to hoist enough sand on deck for an onboard beach.

“It seems constructed as a minor cruise liner,” Ghazi’s eyes swabbed a ship that could’ve taken two hundred passengers, “but refitted since.”

“This boat no longer matters.” Bernard indicated some chaise chairs under a canopy, where Ghazi’s wives could be comfortable. Refreshments and food had been readied for them. “I’ve sold it.” He removed his robe to take some sun, and took a seat positioned to watch the volleyball game.

“Are these sun-goddesses the entertainment,” bin Omani cast his eyes to the four topless girls playing on the deck-beach: bronze skins glistened with sun lotion and sweat, “or is one your current plaything?”

“They’re such a superbly matched set,” Bernard smiled at the foursome who could be female quadruplets, “that it would be a sin to pick just one.”

“Why did you summon me here so abruptly?” The flight from the East coast had been sudden and grueling. I was on two phones during the whole trans-continental trip. Fortunately the sheik had prepared for this type of setting: he flipped off his traditional garb to the blood red swim trunks he had on underneath. At least I’ve bought myself a reprieve for tomorrow.

“What haven’t you been up to?” Bernard Stryker pointedly asked.

“I’m in a fracas with Wall Soft Systems.”

“I didn’t ask of your recent doings—I already know them.”

“What haven’t I done?” The sheik paraphrased back the query and he twigged to the real topic.

“I’m still on it.” Ghazi lied: he felt like a truant boy caught at a swimming pool and he knew his mentor didn’t buy into it.[/private_Chevron]

…

“Hee hee,” Bob tittered at the tally, as a brutal day for his foe closed. “I’ll bet Ghazi’s rump is as raw as from riding an alligator hide saddle.”

“Later shares will be more expensive than these early ones are.” Collin glanced over at his boss and he made his face unreadable to hide the fact that the teen girlish giggling was rather annoying.

“My treasury is as plump as a Sumo wrestler’s butt.” Bob regretted the anal analogies as they reminded him of his employee’s sexual predilection.

“It went on a half a billion pound crash diet when you bought the boat.” Hersker suddenly rued his words too, but it was because they served to extend a conversation that he would rather not be having right now.

“I needed a yacht and I got it for a superb price.” Bob defended his purchase. “The Squid is the world’s largest private watercraft.”

“My best advice is that you cancel the deal and keep the cash.”

“I’ll take the loss of the deposit right up my keister!” Again Bob spoke without considering the sexual connotation first.

“A slippery squid tentacle up there now, will hurt a whole lot less than a pachyderm’s trunk—if it turns into a white elephant.”

“I did calculations before I made the offer and I’m holding enough cash to buy out Omani.” The CEO chucked his general on the arm. “Slugger, you’ve nearly knocked Ghazi to the canvas already.”

“I’ve had an awfully long last few of rounds.” Slugger? He preferred the asshole endearment. “Today, I’ll be punching-out early.”[private_Chevron]

…

“I would’ve never thought of this approach,” Tariq had scanned Bijan’s email and his pleasure came from looking at the header information, “but it worked. This isn’t just a public email account. Let’s see what it really is.”

[You need a protégé.]

Finally, I’ve had a half decent suggestion from Loki the Leech.

“Wench,” the hacker extraordinaire scooted far back in his chair, “park your cheeks right here.” He patted the space between his spread thighs.

“These sweet ones?” Fatima grinned and slapped her own face with her both hands. “Why, you filthy old man!” Despite her impertinence, the girl knew what he was intending and squished her bottom in tight.

“First, you run the domain name through a Whois database to get the registered owner.” The teacher kept a running tutorial for his student to follow. “Compare the name and the obvious derivatives against the output file from my Low-Key program.”

“I see several likely users.” Fatima’s painted fingernail clicked on the monitor’s glass. “I believe it’s this one.”

“Cracking into the company’s system would’ve been possible,” Tariq’s legs were snug around her hips and he watched her progress from over her shoulder—where his chin rested, “but a backdoor makes sliding in easier.”

“All we needed was the name of Bijan’s email provider.” As prompted to do, Fatima probed further. This is thrilling and my fingers are shaking.

[You were trembling like that when collapsing Jericho’s walls.]

“Now you have the access privileges than even the email provider’s administrator: you have root permissions and you can do anything.”

“But what do I do with my free reign?”

“If it were me driving,” Tariq wrapped his arms around her waist like a passenger on the back of her motorcycle, “I would install a redirect, so we have the opportunity to see his incoming and outgoing mail, before it can resolve into or out of his account.”

“Done.” Fatima had followed his instructions during the process. He had also showed her how to check for saved messages, but there were none of those. The program’s security protocols eliminated the data after it was processed and it coupled erasing with overwriting to avoid any recreating.

“From now onwards, you own Kiani’s previously secure messages.”

…

“I need a shower,” Collin Hersker pulled his Lamborghini Diablo into his stall under a luxury condominium building, “but I don’t know if I can stay awake for that long.” As he closed the door, the thirty-two year old executive stared glassy-eyed at his reflection in the tinted driver’s window. He loved this car, but at the moment it felt worthless to him. My salary is larger than I can spend but just now, I feel like I have nothing.

“I haven’t been home for two days,” Collin trudged into the rotunda and called for the lift, “but it will be exactly the same and empty.” He selected the penthouse floor. I don’t even have live plants needing water. But his fake ones were of top quality that almost passed as growing plants.

“I’d love to have someone waiting for me.” I’m never sure if girls want me for myself or mainly for the over-abundant money I earn. The asshole proxy general keyed the lock into his spacious suite: he stepped into a dim foyer and reached for the switch. From out of seemingly nowhere, a fist to the stomach doubled him over and his breath whooshed.

“My client is angry.” The assailant threw a left uppercut that connected with Collin’s jaw. Then a meaty shoulder slammed into the slighter man and sent him crashing against the wall.

The executive dropped to the floor: he was still breathless from the first sucker-punch. I can’t even defend because I don’t see the blows coming. Hersker’s pupils hadn’t adjusted to the gloom.

“Don’t—Dick—Around—With—Ghazi—Bin—Omani.” Fierce kicks punctuated each word and the spaces between were each as the thug’s leg swung back for the vicious next.

The last blow Collin painfully felt was the one on bin that cracked his rib. The next was a steel-toe striking his temple: bright colors flashed and then black ink smudged out the gloomy room.

…

In Damascus, Bijan Kiani opened his private digital mailbox. His first emotion was of disappointment: his naughty schoolgirl hadn’t responded yet. However, he had another critical purpose for accessing it today.

‘Grandmaster has a special duty for you.’ Bijan didn’t add preamble: the recipient would know who this was. He typed the brief communiqué.

The Jihad Journal’s editor clicked the send button. As usual, the note disappeared without leaving a trace. He wistfully looked again at an empty inbox and sighed. “I really want to see that girl’s intimate photos.”

But the outgoing message hadn’t really gone yet. It was in the limbo of a server’s hard drive and waiting the root permission to proceed onwards. In Quetta, Pakistan, another computer’s internal bell sounded an alert.

‘Finish up what you are there for and report back to the staging area.’ Tariq read the private instruction and he appended another two lines into it. ‘Take our new contact along. His insight will benefit the larger cause.’

The hacker clicked a transmit icon and the email resumed its electronic course—as if no intermediate stopover had ever occurred.

“Why do I feel like I just jumped off another boat?” The programmer wiped his sweating palms on his thighs. His hands left two long smudges down the front of his otherwise pure white robe.

…

“Did I ride in a collapsing roller-coaster,” the Wall Soft proxy warrior awoke to find he had a full inventory of pain as vigorously reported from each of his body’s major nerve clusters, “or was I dragged behind it.”

Collin willed away enough of his hurt to struggle to his feet. His hand hadn’t found the switch during the assault: now it fell there accidentally. The brightness added a dazzling ocular jolt. A part of his body’s position during unconsciousness, was discernable in blood on the white carpeting. It looked like a forensics unit in haste, had drawn a patchy corpse outline with a dripping red spray paint can.

“My housekeeper is going to deserve a bonus.” Collin staggered to the bathroom to assess his injuries in the mirror. This is ugly but I don’t think I need urgent medical attention. He wetted a cloth and dabbed away the crusted blood that had flowed from his nose.

“I can’t remember when I last had a shiner like this one is shaping up to be.” The eye in question was a rich purple color and almost swollen shut.

“That’s just great!” As an added insult to his many injuries, he felt that his Breitling wristwatch was gone. It’s four in the morning. Focusing his one good eye on the wall clock supplied the information. Collin had been looking forward to a good night sleep in his own bed but had ended up on the hard floor for the past ten hours. The bruised victim gingerly peeled his clothes off and tried to tally up his wounds—he lost count.

“I don’t remember being struck in some of these places: bastard must have kept kicking me after I was out cold.” The hot water stung like iodine when he first got into the shower but then it turned soothing.

“Should I play the markets today?” The punching-bag man let water play over his back while pondering his options. One nasty thought stood prominent. “Sheik Ghazi bin Omani sent a goon right into my home!”

“I don’t even really like Bob anymore—if I ever did.” The executive looked in his mirror at a pummeled face, covered in shaving gel. “Should I be risking my safety to wage his war?” The question was still nagging as his body performed the morning routines on autopilot.

“I’ll go into the office,” he packed a bag with clothes and toiletries to anonymously overnight in a hotel “and decide on my long term plan later.”

Hersker cautiously looked both directions before entering the elevator. In the parking garage, his car looked untouched. Was there a bomb rigged to explode when the ignition was keyed? I already hurt in so many places that being blown to smithereens might be a welcome relief.

“If I was to be killed, the mauler would’ve done it in my suite.” He fired the engine and drove off into the early Seattle morning.

“I was starting to feel this fight was mine,” by the time the proxy war general got to the headquarters, he had his decision made, “and now this is one asshole who will take pleasure in drilling Ghazi a few fresh rectums.”

…

“The jihad captain might ask both of us to go.” Fatima pouted.

“I’m guessing that he will,” the man stood firm, “but you’re not going.”

“If he doesn’t,” the young woman persisted as if her selective hearing had omitted the last part, “you can refuse to go unless I’m invited too.”

“If Kareem’s eyes had only trained on your burnoose caboose,” Tariq turned Fatima physically around and he tightened the material against the girl’s lower body, “I still wouldn’t let you near him again.”

“Your exact words were,” she recited, “if I’m not present.”

“The key phrase in that sentence was not to go anywhere near him.”

“You can’t order me to do,” She placed her hands sternly on her hips: the stance was odd, as she was still facing away, “or not to do anything.”

“But he didn’t just see this hazy outline,” Tariq stretched the fabric again, “the target in his back sight was the whites of this delectable little derriere.” His hands flipped the bottom half of her abaya up to reenact her accidental unfrocking. “His gun is now fully cocked for it.”

“You’re jumping the gun,” Fatima crossly pushed her clothing back down, “but are you so cock sure that he’ll take you if I don’t come too?”

“If he doesn’t then he won’t,” Tariq took his hands away and he folded them into his lap, “but I will not risk my doe with that horny goat-herder.”

She glared menacingly and her lips were pressed tightly, but Fatima had no other arguments handy. The man’s decision seemed irreversible.

[A male general can only beat female one by surrendering.]

“It’s not just my protecting you either.” The Iranian knew that females were largely unfathomable to a male, but he had better try something. “I don’t want to further jeopardize our grand scheme either. I really need you back in Toronto. Sam has his part and you do too.”

“I assumed that was to be one of your jobs.” Fatima softened.

“We didn’t assign duties that far in advance.” Tariq smiled. Score one for the Scandinavian pest: this is actually working. “Now that I think on it, you’re the better one for it. Even if we could swap spots, with you going alone with Kareem and my heading for Toronto, it wouldn’t be as perfect.”

“I know exactly what you’re attempting.” Her cheeks tightened as she tried squelching a grin. “I’ll let you get away with it—but only this once.”

[Don’t blame me. I didn’t suggest that.]

Maybe I’ve just unleashed a monster.

…

The CEO didn’t show up for work until near the stock market closing bell. The first task of his very late morning was checking in with his proxy brigadier—who looked like he was in an automobile accident.

“The final seven words I heard before a last boot in the brain-pan were ‘don’t dick around with Ghazi bin Omani’.” He made light of his beating. “Do these twenty or so minor wounds qualify me for one purple-heart?”

“We shouldn’t joke about this.” Bob’s first thoughts weren’t about the welfare of his employee but of how he couldn’t afford to loose him. “I’ll provide a crack security team to cover you around the clock.”

“The guy wasn’t just an amateur thug: he broke into my apartment and disabled security alarms.”

“After what happened to you last night, I can understand if you went easy on the war today.”

“I didn’t ease up,” Collin gamely grinned, “I gave monetary retribution for the physical pounding he sent me. I ran our treasury down somewhat, but substantially increased our holdings in bin Omani’s core companies. I bought at good prices and he’s bleeding in as many spots as I am bruised.”

“That took guts.” Wall felt as if he should give a hug but a thought of the man’s sexual preferences quashed it: he joshed instead. “If you point a place on your back that doesn’t hurt, I’ll give it a congratulatory pat.”

“I would prefer if you just give me a safe place to spend the weekend.” Suddenly, the asshole had an idea. “Hey, is your new boat here?”

“It hasn’t left San Diego yet.” It was Bob’s turn for a brainwave. He’s gay and my slave already thinks of him as her girlfriend: they can have a sleepover. “You can stay in the apartment: there’s nowhere safer.”

“This place is tighter than a crack house.” Collin sighed with relief but briefly wondered where the girl was. “I’ve already got a bag in my office.”

“Here’s the key to the suite and another for the exterior office door.” The CEO had assembled a key ring by the time his underling returned. “Now let’s get you two settled in before I head for home.”

“Two?” The young executive stopped like a mime hitting a glass wall.

“You and Oksana.” Bob looked sheepishly. Oops, this shows I know he’s a homosexual. “Your beating makes this an emergency requirement.”

“~What’s going on?” The girl was seated in the big chair. Her eyes fell on the suitcase in Collin’s hand.

“He is staying over for a few days.” Bob mimed his words with some actions that a charades champion couldn’t have figured out.

“~This is fantastic.” The Russian woman’s expression was of delight. She took his valise hand, and dragged the man along with his luggage.

“Uh,” Collin followed as drawn, “there’s only one bed in here.”

“You’ll bunk together.” Again, the CEO acted out his instructions. He indicated both, pointed at the bed and then made a sleepy hands gesture.

Collin Hersker was speechless. Had Bob bought into the interoffice gossip about his being gay? Most people called him the Asshole but he did have friends in the company who told him what was said behind his back.

“I’ll see you on Monday.” Wall offered cheerfully

“Bob—I—uh,” Collin stammered, “I’m not what you might think.”

“Of course you’re not,” the CEO was now utterly convinced, “but you’re staying here until at least Monday morning. That’s a direct order.”

“~You’re hurt.” After Bob left, she gingerly touched his lacerations. “~It’s my turn to help you. Then I have some other plans.”

“I caught your sympathy,” Collin read her face as if spoken in a shared language, “but also another expression that my boss didn’t anticipate.”

…

“Under my administration,” Zafira Abdi muttered as her limo traveled the dirty streets of Quetta, “this city will actually become part of Pakistan: instead of it’s being in an unrecognized quasi-province of Afghanistan.”

“This is highly irregular.” The presidential candidate’s head bodyguard voiced his concern over the swap about to occur.

“I have to meet this person in absolute confidence.” Abdi had received secret word of a benefactor she had wooed, being ready to finally commit.

“I still don’t like it.” The security chief grumbled but followed orders and removed himself from her vehicle. The driver was also replaced.

“I’m to look after you.” The heftier of the two apparently Saudi men said as they climbed into the bulletproofed limo compartment.

“Let’s go.” Zafira’s voice was impatient. As the car headed off alone, she forgot about the Arabs and daydreamed instead of Stryker and what he promised to do for her. My political victory is all but assured now: I need only to sign-off on Bernard’s mysterious final concession.

“I’m tasked with delivering a harsh message.” The fat Saudi pulled his Walther handgun and chambered a fresh round.

“A message!” Zafira’s shocked eyes focused sharply on the black hole of the gun’s muzzle—it was aimed at her forehead.

“Unfortunately,” the Arab recited his memorized statement, “all of the previously agreed to support items become redundant on the execution of a final contract term—that being your death.”

“You sick, twisted bastard.” The doomed politician suddenly found a different meaning in the boastful statement Bernard had made in Vienna. ‘Princess Diana rode with me in a landau to this opera house.’ “Were my marital infidelity and my life only grizzly notches on your bedpost?”

“Have you any final requests?” The man with the gun asked.

I have an unfulfilled future lifetime worth of them. Zafira’s mind spoke but her lips only quivered. I should beg for Bernard Stryker to meet an end worse than this one. She doubted that either of
these men would carry out that final appeal. She took a breath and asked her boon: it was the same as females committing suicide do for themselves. “Don’t mar my face.”

While a too stunned to react programmer watched on, Kareem Kareem emptied his magazine into Zafira Abdi’s heart: her beauty remained intact.[/private_Chevron]

Chapter 18 of Loki’s Trojan

Extremists of a Trading Floor Jihad

[private_Chevron]“I don’t want a food menu.” The programmer declined the waiter. The two men had chatted while Tariq finished his workout: Kareem had begged off owing to his past strain. Fatima had shown up and that prompted the jihad man to insist on a lunch together.

“Aren’t you having a meal also?” The six foot tall and approximately twenty-eight-year-old man folded a chunky frame into the chair. “It’s not the time for Ramadan restrictions yet.”

“You’re both welcome to eat if you wish.” Tariq smiled at the thought of the special restrictions during the Arabic holiday. I could go without the food and water during daylight hours—but I’d have zero chance of Fatima letting me off without sex too. “I don’t within an hour of my exercise.”

“Religiously?” The jihad man hadn’t heard of that requirement. He put his order in with the waiter and so did Fatima.

“Yes and no.” The programmer’s poundage loss after 9/11 was in part owed to this quirk. “I religiously hold to my personal rule, but it’s for non-sectarian reasons. During that hour, my muscles need refueling: they have to burn my fat instead of taking easier energy straight from the stomach.”

“I’ve trekked the Hajj,” Kareem hadn’t paid attention, though he could doubtlessly benefit from it, “the Umrah, and Ziyarah pilgrimages.”

Fatima nodded appreciatively at his pious accomplishments. She was seated slightly back from the table: so the men could catch her full female effect. The display of skin was culturally restricted but she maximized all tiny allowances. Her posture was crisply erect with knees tightly together. Her hands, folded carefully in her lap, were painted with coffee-brown henna designs like lace on the backs and down onto several fingers.

“In the gym,” the Iranian abruptly changed the topic, “you spoke only of general knowledge that I could’ve gotten from nearly anyone. You were ordered to speak with me because I need your in depth perspective.”

“Uh.” The younger man had been rapt in Fatima’s spell but conscious willpower had held his clandestine gaze from overt staring. “I shouldn’t discuss too much until I’m certain you’re not with the C.I.A.”

“The American Central Intelligence Agency is doubtlessly the most reprehensible organization in recorded history.” Tariq’s words seemed to come from his heart. “They’ve caused as much death and suffering as the Nazi SS but Americans are blind to it—just as people in Germany weren’t observant to what their government sponsored criminals were up to.”

“Puppeteers control the western media.” The jihad man offered sagely. His eyes flickered to see the woman’s reaction to his astuteness.

Fatima’s eyelashes fluttered to denote her favorable impression.

[A tastier cheese never baited any other mousetrap.]

“I don’t know how to prove what I’m not.” The Iranian man returned to the C.I.A. issue. “Maybe you could hook me up to a polygraph and ask me to describe my feelings on Agent Kermit Roosevelt’s manipulation of foreign politics that returned the Shah of Iran to brutal power. For a nation purportedly believing in democracy, they were eager enough to kill Iran’s.”

“I’m satisfied with that answer.” The commander accepted the rant as sufficient proof. It only took one glance over at the daughter to cement the substantiation in his mind as irrefutable. “Ask me whatever you like.”

Kareem seems like he fits the model of a policeman. The Iranian had a sudden inspiration. I’ll bet he was one—or aspired to that career.

[How so?]

All evidence proves what he wants it to show—with no possibility of it supporting any other conclusion. He was dead sure that he fooled me in the gym—a superiority complex is common in law enforcement officers. Now, he is eager to capitalize on his position for a personal perk—a willingness to take graft is often in a pouch on a Sam Browne belt.

“Let’s start with you.” Tariq smiled at his cleverness. Give a male the opportunity to tout his self worth in a beautiful woman’s ear and secrets will roll from salivating lips. “What path brought you to your position?”

“I was a police officer in Riyadh.” An admiring gaze from the girl was a starter pistol for Kareem Kareem’s tongue. A meal came and was eaten while the jihad officer regaled on his past exploits.

“You were actually on an aircraft out of New York’s Kennedy airport,” the man who lost his family wanted to know more, “on the day of 9/11?”

“I lead the back-up team.” Kareem bragged. “If the primary target had been missed, my men and I were ready to strike. I received a stand-down order while we were in the air. Shortly thereafter, my flight was grounded. My men and I deplaned and went to a hotel to celebrate the victory.”

“America then attacked Afghanistan,” Tariq was almost too shaken by this twist to continue: he tossed out an insipid comment, “as predictable.”

“Kandahar is not the important theater that it once was.”

“I would like to,” still reeling, the Iranian almost said ‘go there’, but a blistering look from the burkha’s peephole stopped him, “uh—know more about why you’re still active in this vicinity.”

“NATO spends ordinance but the resulting bang-for-the-bucks are just exploding land mines left by previous conflicts. We send soldiers and that gives a false impression of accomplishing something with the equipment they’re wasting.” The jihad commander had an idea. “I might be able to include you on a limited exercise. You would have to first offer a solemn vow—with Allah as your witness.”

“I can swear.” Is it binding if I don’t ascribe that deity?

[A soul’s freewill isn’t obligatory any God: it trumps them all.]

…

Ghazi bin Omani was swearing too but in a different connotation. His verbiage wasn’t an oath but rather a furious critique flecked with expletives in an assortment of languages. The diatribe involved Bob Wall’s coupling with assorted livestock and taking excrement as a dietary supplement.

“It could take days to find out where the money is coming from.” The man giving the grim assessment was only temporarily in charge of the bin Omani Transport sub-unit. Rajah Fakir was of Saudi extraction and he didn’t fear instant beheading—only because no axes were sitting handy.

“Wall has blamed his production run foul-up on me,” Ghazi guessed, “simply because my ship carried the defective product.”

“It is ridiculous to suppose that so many disks could be swapped and resealed while at sea.” The unlucky underling offered aloud. Internally, he envied his supervisor’s fortunate stars that had him away undergoing major surgery while this stock market action was occurring.

“It’s similarly preposterous to surmise that I would’ve summoned you to comment on that subject.” The sheik was seated in a comfortable chair while his subordinate nervously stood. The windows on one side the huge conference room overlooked the New York nerve center of the bin Omani Group. “Recaps the trading action for me, from your perspective.”

“On the market’s opening, big blocks of bin Omani Transport shares were offered much faster than buyers could respond, and it sent the price tumbling. More shares were automatically put into the pool of sell orders when the ticker descended to pre-set stop-loss limits.” Rajah rattled the information off but then needed a breath. “That’s when I called you.”

“The shareholders need more faith in my corporate strength.” Ghazi’s remark was off-the-cuff but he knew the market’s wider mentality was in seeking gains and then in protecting them.

“The attack was of sufficient size to frighten even the bravest ones into selling.” The junior Arab blanched inside at having contradicted the sheik. “A pittance of buyers materialized but sales only ticked the record lower.” Rajah felt footing at the bottom of fear. “Subsequent automatic sell levels were as doors opening into an elevator shaft. Anxious shareholders dashed in only to find the cab, with its cable snapped, had already plunged by.”

“Those few buyers then turned into sellers,” Ghazi correctly surmised, “and the price went to record lows.”

“Suddenly someone, doubtlessly the perpetrator, started buying.” Fakir imagined his confidence ascending like the shares did. “He snapped up units as they hemorrhaged onto the trading floor. The raider replaced the shares he had sold short, to trigger the slide, then kept purchasing stock at bargain basement prices.”

“A run on my company could turn the power balance in voting shares.” The Sheik thought out loud and did a mental tally of how many shares he needed to maintain control. “Start buying.”

“The price is already climbing again.” Rajah’s voice was tentative. “That could be what he wants you to do. He’s already made a fortune on the slide and may double it on the ride back up.”

“I know!” Ghazi bin Omani offhandedly waved the man away. “But no eater of dung is going to buy control of one of my companies.”

“The subsequent buying frenzy made the elevator car seem to have landed on a super-rubber spring that shot the ticker back up faster than it had fallen.” Rajah Fakir reported near the close of the market day. “The bin Omani Transport Corporation is finishing the day up thirty points.”

“I’ve secured enough additional certificates to retain fifty-one percent,” the stressed Arab didn’t need or want to add that the cost had been grizzly, “and that company is now safe in the future.”

“May I go back to work now?” The executive of bin Omani Transport blessed his fortunate karma that Ghazi expended his wrath at the market activity. Rajah didn’t want to remain in the vicinity of quick-fused Arab when he realized the full impact. The sheik had a reputation of terminating a man’s career as casually as he would flush a toilet.

“A whore’s illegitimate offspring made a huge profit as my shares fell,” bin Omani stared at the man, “and a bigger paper gain as they soared.”

“Where hundreds of small investors used to hold stock,” Fakir uttered a mental prayer to Allah before continuing, “now Wall Soft Systems controls a large block. While you retained majority interest, the corporate treasury has badly suffered and the money has probably all gone to the attacker.”

“The cash might fuel other fights.” Sheik Ghazi waved the man away and strode from his boardroom. He slammed his office door behind and dropped onto his plush leather sofa. “Praise Allah this day is finally over.”

…

“Ah, life is good again.” The Wall Soft CEO had used the needle in the mistress suite bathroom. “The battle with Omani has me too stressed out.”

“Shit,” Bob was sitting on the toilet because it was comfortable and he stretched out his legs, “the worst part is that half the time I’m not even sure who is winning. I have to wait for the asshole to tell me the current score.” Then Wall looked at his surroundings and giggled. “I’m on a john but not defecating: I even mentioned crap and a butt-hole.”

“Maybe Collin is gay. He knows about that Les Liaisons Dangereuses stuff: that sounded queer.” Inspired by heroin the CEO’s mind veered off on a tangent to his previously inane mental activity.

“I’ve never seen him with a woman but then we don’t cruise the same social circles.” He tittered again. “Is that because Hersker cruises Hershey highway rider bars? That gives the asshole label a whole different connotation.”

“I’m heterosexual and I want to free Willy, and then get his rocks off.” The CEO reentered the bedroom and lifted the sheet.

“~You woke me up.” Oksana mumbled and briefly opened her eyes. Seeing what he obviously wanted, she unceremoniously flopped her legs apart: then promptly closed her eyes to try to sleep again.

“I might as well have one of those realistic life-sized love dolls.” He found her actions insulting and lost his feelings of ardor. In disgust, Bob flipped the cover back onto her body. “With a babe made of rubber I could pull a string and hear an phrase in English.”

In the Russian girl’s defense, she really didn’t know how Wall wished to be treated. She knew her face was expressive, but he seldom looked at anything above her chin and he didn’t correctly react to her moods when he did. She could also see by his expressions, that he unfavorably compared her to other women—perhaps even to her friend Lyra. Half her time with Bob was spent in worry that he may take offense and send her back to the mob—and the other was in wishing that he would. At least she understood Sergey’s abuse—and had some pleasures when sent on other assignments.

Wall put his clothes back on and returned to the washroom for a piss—where his eyes fell on the needle kit and stash.

“That Russian bimbo hasn’t earned any of this today.” He swiped the junky girl’s precious package. “Time without will be a stern reminder of who her candy man is.” He went down to the cafeteria for a chocolate bar.[/private_Chevron]

“Good Morning Major General Hersker.” With time zone differences between Wall Street and the Pacific coast, skirmishes were well underway before the corporate office opened: Bob’s recent habit was of arriving late. Just now, Collin was returning from lunch while the CEO was on his way back up. “How goes the battle?” The nerd asked in the elevator.

“We were doing okay but Ghazi of Arabia is one cagy opponent and pulled a cute trick when I moved on bin Omani Plastics.” Collin shuffled over as three more executives caught the same lift.
“We started selling short again but he was ready. Omani duplicated the action and dumped loads of his own stock to increase the speed of the plunge. Consequently, we didn’t make as much on the price plummet.”

“But we made some?” Bob asked.

“Briefly, but again matching our moves, he bought on the recoil. The shares spiked but not as quickly as expected so we kept grabbing them.” Collin paused. “Unbeknownst, Ghazi ceased his purchases just short of the opening price whilst we kept on buying.”

“I now own controlling interest in a company we didn’t intend to buy?” Bob surmised the conclusion and saw the asshole nod. “The fact that the Arabic pit bull gave it up doubtlessly means we paid more than it’s worth.”

“I suspect so.” Collin smelled something foul and his nose wrinkled.

“Who purged Mr. Colon in here?” Wall reacted to a septic tank stink: the silent fart was nasty and concentrated in the small enclosure. He then realized he’d use the office joke in front of the butt of it. Bob forced a tiny laugh and the three junior executives took the CEO’s cue to chuckle too.

Collin found no humor in either the body gaffe or the events around it. I would like to fire any sycophant who laughed on such phony prompting.

[private_Chevron]“Why,” after an awkward silence while the elevator dropped off the gas passer and his two cronies, Wall continued, “did you keep on buying?”

“We were in for a penny so I went for the pound.” Hersker delivered a cliché in place of an answer he probably couldn’t put in words that the boss would appreciate. I wanted Ghazi to know he had vulnerabilities and this was an opportunity—but would Bob find that worth the price tag?

“They were dollars down a stink hole.” Bob botched a trite phrase as his mind strolled a side path. His butt’s not a virgin so his dog didn’t bark.

“So terminate my contract.”

“Perhaps,” Bob was about to call by saying ‘I should’, but he realized that Collin wasn’t bluffing, “you’ve flustered Ghazi with a sinker pitch.”

“A player that bats from the other side of the plate,” Hersker noted as they arrived at the top floor, “is dangerous to a right-handed pitcher.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over one bad inning.” The chief executive took a subconscious step back as his employee had almost flat-out admitted he was a switch-hitter. The slightly high CEO congratulated his astuteness in the correct assumption that Collin was gay—but he would have come to terms with dealing with a closet-homo. “So what’s next?”

“I’m not going to decide that until tomorrow morning. We have some options.” The takeover field marshal spoke quickly and he looked at the sapphire crystal display on his watch. Time he spent explaining would be better used in figuring out what to do. “One certainty is that I’ll be mixing pitches. Too many fastballs in a row had Ghazi’s bat poised for another.”

“I’m looking forward to your next report,” Bob playacted a salute, “but I’ll be in San Diego until late tomorrow night.”

“Huh?” Collin jerked from an engrossing new stream of thoughts: then just as quickly tuned Wall out. I’m too busy to even care where he goes.

…

Jihad is the word the soldiers of Osama call the job they do and Tariq was now acting as part of that struggle of the duped faithful.

[Are they really deceived?]

A sideline benefit of my undercover work will be in learning that.

“Why do you risk your life for this cause?” Tariq asked as they were traveling out to an impromptu arms range. The leader had introduced the sympathetic journalist and that provided a license to ask probing questions.

“Capitalists will bleed us until their blood is on the sand.” Said one.

“Democracy the west inflicts is only imperialism.” Answered another.

A better vein of research might be finding out why all the troops in this jihad unit are able to speak English. Tariq inquired of their backgrounds instead: most were of low-income families and had marginal educations.

[The employment prospects are in slaving for multinational interests or in soldiering against the same.]

The men I’m serving with have all seen inequities in their society. In their thoughts, they are trying to right the wrongs they perceive. Terrorists push for geopolitical change, through their violent means. The supposedly anti-terrorist governments exert their will, by force of arms. Is there really any tangible difference?

[It’s in the perception of the greater number of individuals.]

The television audience only hears half the story though so it is in the deception of the masses instead. As Fatima believes, capitalism owning both the press and the government is a humanity-defeating situation.

“The area around Kandahar was staunchly in support of our Jihad but the major battles have been lost.” Kareem explained the current situation. “NATO roams the countryside at will but we still make our presence felt.”

“Are we going to cross the border today?” Tariq felt a sudden grip of panic. I assumed this was just training or I wouldn’t be here.

“We won’t be going into Afghanistan but we’ll be close to it.” Kareem answered. “Even if we did, it wouldn’t matter much out here. The frontier isn’t some great barrier or even a fence.”

“I know the barren landscape doesn’t change color like ink in an atlas.”

“We have weapons to give our Taliban brethren.” The leader nudged his trainee and pulled aside the canvas tarp. “The inventory we hand over will simply be missing the ammunition we’ll expend for your training.”

The truck pulled into a draw between two sheer bluffs. For several hours, Kareem demonstrated the use of the AK-47 assault rifle, grenades and an assortment of ordinance. Some of the team had been dispatched to the surrounding hilltops to stand watch and the practicing ceased when one lookout signaled an arrival.

“Stand away from the vehicle but stay ready.” Kareem hissed a terse order as a tractor pulling a cart, chugged into the gully. He walked to the vehicle as the four occupants emerged.

Tariq watched as the newcomers climbed aboard the arms truck. This meet is as tension filled as a prisoner exchange between warring factions. The smaller Afghani unit drove away in the direction they had come from. The few spoken words had occurred only between the two commanders.

“It’s peculiar to me that men fighting the same enemy wouldn’t be more cordial.” The programmer broached the subject while bouncing in the wagon in the much longer return trip to Quetta.[/private_Chevron]

“The leader of that group and I don’t share much in common.” Kareem had taken a seat in the back while one of his men operated the tractor, “we had a heated discussion that started with tactics but turned to politics.”

“I should think ideology would be an area where you would agree wholeheartedly.” Especially since the Taliban and Al Qaeda are joined in the fight what both consider a holy war.

“Personally, I think the Taliban hold overly repressive opinions. That’s especially so in the draconian policies towards women.” The squad leader chuckled. “Were I an Afghani, I wouldn’t want them ruling my country.”

“Yet you appear willing to fight and die if needs be, to support their cause. That presents somewhat of a dichotomy.”

“Not really.” Kareem countered. “My concern is with the larger issue. The people of Afghanistan must be allowed their own choice on how they will be governed, even if their selection isn’t one I would want for myself.”

[Has an injected bias been coloring your opinions?]

“I understand.” Tariq quickly conceded the point. Like many people in the west, I’ve been prejudiced by propaganda. “Rank-and-file rebel troops in the American Civil War weren’t fighting to retain slavery. They fought to uphold the principle of having the right to select their own way of life.”

“19th century America proposed that they held a god-given Manifest Destiny of controlling the entire North American continent.” Kareem displayed more knowledge of American history than Tariq would’ve expected. “They have expanded that doctrine to putting the whole world under dominance in puppet regimes matching their own sham democracy.”

“Supposed democracy is doubtlessly the most pernicious government form possible.” Tariq agreed. “In claiming to represent the people, every action the regime performs is professed as inspired by the majority. In fact, a very slim minority tightly holds the reins of power.”

“A voting fraud,” Kareem offered, “and the misapplied principle of collective rule dupes the people.”
“The governance NATO installs with bullets doesn’t work properly in the trigger-pulling nations. So, the stated goal of bringing democracy is utterly ridiculous: they don’t actually have one to export.”

“How does Fatima feel about your coming with us?” Kareem changed the subject as they arrived back in Quetta’s outskirts.

“Fatima is a dutiful daughter and understands my mission.” I’ve been wondering when he would get around to this topic.

“Maybe she would like to come along next time?” The leader probed.

[Sergeant horn dog is weary of licking his own privates.]

“O Prophet,” Tariq invented a Koran sounding snippet, “we have made lawful to you your wives and daughters that they should not go to war.”

Kareem Kareem nodded sagely and stroked his patchy beard as if he knew exactly which chapter this verse was gleaned from.

[Does he lubricate his turban with depilatory cream?]

Tariq smiled as he recalled that the man kept no hair on his head and the beard ended sharply at the top of his ears. The conversation ended as the tractor had arrived back in Quetta’s center. Barely any heads turned to look, as even a farm conveyance like this was a regular sight in the city.

…

[private_Chevron]“Again the chess piker has lead with his tedious opening ploy.” Ghazi bin Omani smiled grimly. “The whole of last week he used the same move but chess has differences from the stock market.”

“Why do you compare the two then?” Rajah asked: as a dog nosing around a porcupine, he knew the risk—but smelled a sweet reward.

“The strategic game does have similarities to all aspects of life and especially business.” The sheik first spoke dismissively to the underling then he changed his tone after deciding that talking with a lesser man was preferable to his having a lonely internal conversation. “Yesterday for example, ended in a stalemate. I won in that I made more money but in doing so, I had to feel the sting of giving up one of my companies.”

“As you’ve astutely noticed,” Rajah Fakir sucked up, “Wall is up to the tactic again. Will you be willing to give up bin Omani Imports today?”

“I will,” Ghazi growled like a tiger taught oxford English, “if I can cost him as much of his cash reserves as I did for his taking my Plastics corp.”

“It seems that Bob Wall has found your Achilles heel though.” Fakir took the cordial voice as a possibility to advance his position. “Wall Soft Systems is only one huge corporation and the shares are too strong for you to move in the same manner. Your corporate configuration allows him to pick a sub-unit and then manipulate it.”

“My business affairs were structured this way for good reasons. Each unit being separate and with some based in different nations allows money to be taxed in alternate jurisdictions.” Again Ghazi bristled initially but softened after. “You’re correct though, the war is bought on my home soil and my enemy has the advantage. He can pick his targets and I’m left with deciding whether to defend or let that piece be captured. However, he’ll find my king less easy to be placed in check.”

“I’m all eyes in on the market action for you.” Rajah opted to cash his gained chips and leave the table ahead.

“Get back here!” Ghazi’s eyes had drifted to his monitor, as Fakir was leaving and a change made him shout. “Wall has changed his tactics!”

“He’s likely been buying the shares you were selling to make up units he sold short to start the slide.” The temporary unit-chief saw the same thing. “This time he isn’t buying at the bottom to send the shares up.”

“Instead,” bin Omani took over the observation, “that wild boar’s rump has started a price plummet in a different stock group.”

“Wall destabilized five of your companies today,” Rajah tallied after a frenzied day of trying to follow the raider and react accordingly, “and he doubtlessly made back everything he lost yesterday—and then some.”

…

“This trading day was certainly different from the last.” Collin the asshole Hersker sat back in his chair and laced his fingers together behind a stiff neck. “In Ghazi’s opinion, I’ve doubtlessly earned my nickname.”

It was talking with his boss that spurred the idea for this ploy. I had thrown the same fastball for several days in a row and Ghazi expected another. He belted it out of the park. Today, I threw ones that looked similar but they were all change-ups.

“I haven’t had a boss alert yet,” Hersker glanced at his Breitling watch, “but I suppose I should find him and give my daily report.”

“Bob?” As there was no response to the first rap, Collin called out and knocked even harder. He put his head closer to the door and listened with care: there was a muffled thumping from within.

“Is he bound naked in his office chair,” Collin’s imagination presented a mental vista of a possible explanation, “and bouncing to gain attention?” I did see him tied to a bed like that. He turned the knob and peeked.

“Hello?” The executive asked again but he couldn’t see anyone. The banging is more pronounced here and coming from the apartment door.

“Bob, did you get locked in there?” Collin moved to the rattling door and opened it cautiously. The female within rushed through the opening crack. He had to physically catch her with his free arm around her waist.

“~Where is my stuff?” The Ukrainian junky’s voice was plaintive and she looked up questioningly at her captor. “~I have very bad withdrawal!”

Collin’s male strength overpowered the struggling girl and he nearly carried her back inside. As they moved into the apartment, the man cast about for some sign of his employer’s presence—and then he remembered. “The CEO told me he would out of town. I completely forgot.”

“~Please! I need some now!” Realizing her inability to force her way out, Oksana ceased her attempts. She made frantic gestures of inserting a needle into her arm. “~You have to understand: I desperately need a fix.”

“I can see that. I just don’t have anything to help you.” Collin tried to put sympathy into his soothing voice. Bob is the real asshole around here! Why would he leave her in this condition? It was especially heartrending due to her natural expressiveness that made him almost feel her pain.

“~I’m glad you’re here instead of the jerk.” Oksana allowed herself to be led inside: she slipped under his arm for the support of human contact.

“I know you want drugs. I don’t have them but it’s against my moral fiber to try to find any.” I could get methadone if she wanted to kick her habit but I can’t on such short notice. He sat quietly with her for a few minutes and her distress eased somewhat.

“~I can take the pain with you here.” Oksana communicated it better with her attempt at a smile.

“I can understand exactly what you’re saying. I need only to translate by your facial communication.” Now what can I further do to help? The asshole glanced around at the living room. The magazines were worn from frequent use. I was with her when we bought those. Bob hadn’t given this girl anything but his infrequent presence—when he took what he wanted.

“Should you and I go out again?” Collin had another idea. Her tears have streaked her mascara and her hair is a train wreck. “I’ll take you to a beauty salon for some pampering. It won’t get rid of your symptoms but it may help you to forget about them until Bob gets back from San Diego.”

“I don’t care if you have to call in off duty staff on overtime or press in contract beauticians from your competitors.” The youngish executive was adamant and specific. “This lady needs emergency aesthetic treatment and the cost is no object. She’ll have a facial, manicure, pedicure, makeover and even a massage while your team is working on styling her hair.”

Collin sat aside to watch and the delight on her face was worth any expense even if he couldn’t find a way to charge it back to the company. A spasm of anger made his back shudder. I knew he had idiosyncrasies when I hired on but Bob is hitting some all-time lows.

“It all started when Wall stole that program.” Hersker thought about the recent events. We still don’t even know everything that code is doing but it’s now too crucial to get rid of. That small application was driving the economic engine that enabled the bin Omani fight.

“~Which one would you like to see on me?” The junky waved to catch his attention. She held up two hair fashion pages in the salon’s catalog.

“What do I know about coif trends?” Collin chuckled at the dance of tickled expressions on her features. He nodded at one on the left.

“~Now I can take the other one.” Oksana Gagarin giggled: the pain of her withdrawal was temporarily on hold.

…

“Is there nothing I can be doing?” Fatima hovered like a hornet over the programmer’s shoulder. In the days since Kareem’s retelling of his doings on September 11, Tariq had been tack-welded to his computer. The outing in the countryside was the only break his hacking marathon.

“I’m not even sure what I’m looking for,” he answered distractedly, “so showing you how to help would be nigh on impossible.” He had taught the girl how to use his Trojan’s features, but this needed his finicky work.

“Talk it through with me,” to gain full attention, Fatima spun his chair away from the desk, “and let me judge if I can be of assistance.”

“Kareem hasn’t directly said so, but his seeming autonomy lends to the impression of his troop being an independent unit. It seems to exist within Al Qaeda, but not quite subject to the same coordination.”

“You think bin Omani commands it?”

“The robbery I saw in his New York offices backs up Kareem’s story of his being a contingency to 911.” Tariq’s mind wafted back to the scene of his wife and daughter’s death. “Osama wanted widespread destruction and a big event but Ghazi needed a precise target hit. He is a chess player and so he maneuvered in his own redundancy. His bishop was poised, just in case Osama’s pawns failed to take out the specific opposing castle.”

“How does that equate to what you’re digitally seeking?”

“I don’t know,” Tariq’s exasperation showed, “and that’s where I am stuck at. There has to be something in there,” he hooked a thumb over his shoulder to point at the monitor, “or I’m stymied.”

“You’ve searched everywhere?” The girl moved in between his knees: she squatted onto her heels and reassuringly stroked his thighs.

“Everywhere except where I need to look.” The Iranian grimly smiled at the futility of his nil progress. He decided to talk out the closer details in hopes that she might spot something his familiarity had missed. “Through his many sub-companies, Ghazi has been supplying money to the Jihad: it’s been transferred in sneaky ways. Some cash transfers to the Islamic Jihad Journal, and some goes to that publication’s parent company, Shan Media Corp. In searching that intermediary’s files, I’ve found other contributors, like the Stryker Group. Unfortunately, that corporate entity hasn’t upgraded to the newest Wall Software, so I can’t snoop in there.”

“That’s not what you need anyways.” The girl offered. “You want to see where the funds are going: not where they came from.”

“I already know almost all I need to about the cash.” He corrected. “It goes to some accounts and then vanishes: bank networks are somewhat tougher to breach and I’m not sure that would be really worth the effort. Presumably, the cash pays Al Qaeda and Kareem’s sub group’s expenses.”

“Both wouldn’t come from the same money pot.”

“Stryker’s and Ghazi’s money link up at Shan Media but bin Omani is alone in transferring some of his also to the Islamic Jihad Journal.”

“That assessment is substantiated by your contact with Kareem, instead of one of the regular Al Qaeda units.” Fatima surmised. “The journal’s editor is in touch only with bin Omani’s secondary team.”

“There I stand,” the programmer laughed dryly, “and here I flounder.”

“I could date Kareem,” she offered, “and pump him for information.”

“That man is too dangerous.” Tariq stomped a solid foot on that. “He is a policeman turned criminal soldier. I can’t think of a worse combo.”

“To a woman,” the female offered sagely, “a man is only a man.”

“You’re not to go anywhere near him if I’m not present.”

[Forbidding a woman’s doing something is like asking her to do it.]

“I really mean that,” Tariq acted on Loki’s sound advice, “and it’s for your protection as well as my peace of mind. Police guns account for more wrongful deaths than does even the military’s weaponry. But both groups individually, are responsible for more wrongdoing than the whole criminal element combined. Cops and soldiers have tossed their morals in with the organizations they serve: there’s not much left for their personal uses.”

“Okay.” Fatima acquiesced, but then had a thought about the benefit of using her female talents. “It seems as if the Islamic Jihad Journal’s editor may hold the key to your puzzling lock. What was his name again?”

…

“My slave escaped!” Early afternoon in Pakistan was after midnight in the Pacific Time Zone. Bob Wall had returned from his trip much later than expected to find the apartment door ajar. His fears were quelled as he stepped into the living room to find the girl on the sofa. His bigger shock was seeing Collin Hersker seated in the adjacent chair.

“When I found her earlier,” the second-in-command reached and took the young woman’s hand: he turned it palm down, “these knuckles were bleeding from her beating on the door. You took something she needs.” Hersker’s words were as firm as if roles of employee and boss had been reversed. “Give it back to her—now.”

“She can have it.” Without balking, Bob produced the kit.

“~Thank you!” Oksana’s words were directed at Collin but she raced to take her stuff from the CEO.

“Uh,” the chastised man fumbled for a change of topic and the junky’s new appearance also befuddled him. “I went to San Diego and bought—.”

“I don’t want to talk about anything right now.” Hersker cut him off in mid sentence. He hadn’t done his homework while caring for Bob’s living sex toy. “I don’t even have time to go home before preparing for my day.”

The CEO’s eyes moved from his subordinate leaving, to the Ukrainian girl. They weren’t screwing. Collin really was gay. He fixed her hair and makeup like they were girlfriends.

“When a woman feels she looks good, she performs to match.” Bob gleefully rubbed his hands as he sauntered to the bedroom. “Zeigfeld gave his dancers silk panties so they would be better in his Follies.”

“~I doubt this will be good even if I close my eyes and pretend you’re that other man.” Though much relieved after her needle, Oksana’s hyper-expressive face still betrayed her disappointment.

Bob however, didn’t notice anything above her neck. He was frustrated in her continued lack of suitable responsiveness but a drug injection made him soon forget his disenchantment.

…

‘Dear Mr. Kiani.’ The email he opened had a formal greeting: that was an odd occurrence in this age of digital communication. He read on. ‘I’m an avid reader of your fine publication. I feel an anticipation akin to sexual excitement before reading each issue.’

“Sexual excitement?” Bijan stopped perusing while he chuckled.

‘I’m continually amazed at your genius in putting just the right mix of theology and politics to keep us dedicated fans cheering on the wonderful jihad. You are an exceptional human being and I personally am turned on by a man’s stimulating intellect—far more than by a virile physique.’

“What is this tart buttering me up for?” The magazine editor’s skeptic nature showed, but deep in his lower anatomy, he felt a tiny twitch.

‘I wish I could contribute to your cause in any manner possible. I am currently enrolled in a journalism program and my goal is to write on the humanities and romance attached to the greater goals. While my talent for creative writing is growing, my subject knowledge has flagged behind. I guess that I need to experience a sensual relationship with a jihad visionary before I can capture that passion in my work.’

‘I’m writing to you in hopes that you will publish my essays, after I’m able to write them. In the meantime, I just wished to reach out and touch a great man like Bijan Kiani. May I call you Bijan? I’ve included a photo.’

“This is why a university professorship would be an intriguing job.” The editor viewed the photo. A very attractive young woman was dressed in a white shirt with a pleated plaid skirt. “She looks like a schoolgirl,” he observed a coy look about her eyes: a light veil covered her lower face, “but with a serious crush on her teacher.”

“Where is the possible harm?” Bijan answered her slightly flirtatious missive, with a tastefully playful one.

…

Wall Street opened with the usual bell and especially the day traders scoured the boards for activity. There was profit to be taken in the erratic price swings of a proxy war but there were serious risks as well. Fights among elephants, or mating for that matter, tended to crush any onlookers.

“Today, I’ll try a new tactic.” Collin Hersker rubbed sleep out of his eyes and sniffed his armpit.

“Phew: I’m rank.” He hated wearing the same clothes for two days. “I’ll transfer this bad smell into Ghazi’s nostrils.”[/private_Chevron]

“Short sell bin Omani Shipping.” The Wall Soft battle master stabbed the line connect button on the first of six phones he now had in his office. He picked up the next and placed a similar order.

“Short sell bin Omani Holdings.” How many green bandages does Ghazi have handy and which of his many hemorrhages will he attempt to staunch? Collin took two more handsets and targeted more of bin Omani’s core companies.

“This is still only Thursday morning.” Hersker’s fingers were a blur on his keyboard checking on the effects of his manipulation. “I still have one more day of making Ghazi feel like a jihad martyr of the trading floor.”

Chapter 17 of Loki’s Trojan

Scene Through a Burkha’s Window

With the final destination of Quetta in Pakistan, Tariq Muhammad and his lovely daughter Fatima lifted off from Toronto’s Lester B. Pearson Airport. People seated near them in business class were at first enthralled by the girl’s exquisite and exotic beauty but it was her genuine affection for her father that completely won their hearts: she clung to him as tenderly as a lover and snuggled against him, as they chatted quietly.

“Let’s go join the mile high club.” Fatima giggled into Tariq’s ear.

“That would put an awkward rent in our father and daughter routine.” His mind couldn’t resist a fleeting temptation at her lewd suggestion.

“We can play hide-and-seek,” the playful young woman spread an in-flight blanket over both their laps and pulled it up to her neck to cover any fun that might ensue, “for a small object hidden in our clothing instead.”

“You’re too skinny,” the beleaguered man switched the subject away from her proposals of sky high jinks, “for the name of Fatima.”

“Fatima means daughter of Muhammad. As soon as you took that name, my choice was obvious.”

“You like to pick names that mean something.”

“Was that phrased as a question,” the girl’s hand found his inner thigh, “or as just an observation begging for a comment?”

“What’s the difference?”

“If you asked then I would be impolite not to answer.” Fatima pinched her fingernails into a sensitive nerve center. “But if you stated a perceived fact then I can confirm by not contradicting it and your ploy to evade my rapacious desires will have failed—yet again.”

“I should pour ice water under the blanket to cool your ardor.” Tariq scanned the aisles. “The flight attendant hasn’t finished the meal service.”

“I’ll bet she’s joined the sex-in-an-aircraft-lavatory fraternity more than once.” The naughty young woman nodded slightly to indicate a mature stewardess. The woman had bleached blonde hair and heavy make-up.”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“How about if I fix my lonely dad up with a fling? After learning from an experienced mile-high club member, you can pass the moves on to me.”

“Can we at least wait until they dim the cabin lights?”

“My mom made our identity changes into a little game.” Fatima went back to the interrupted topic. “I would tell her what I wanted and then she tried to get it. I now know that it all depended on Sam’s resourcefulness.”

“It must be more difficult for him to find particular names.”

“Like Lyra!” The girl chuckled at the pains her choice must’ve cause the old forger. “I wanted to be named Lira because it’s money in Italian.”

“What was important about one having a secondary meaning?”

“A name is more than just a sound people answer to. They are mini-backgrounds for the individuals. First names might be a person or maybe a movie star the parents admired. Middle ones are often bestowed in respect to a deceased relative. Surnames tie the family together but also tell about the heritage. A name is a bond to the past and to people we love.”

“I gave mine up without caring as to its significance”

“I’ve never had one truly my own and I didn’t want my names to be only sound so I used etymology or significant reasons for picking them.”

“You must have a name somewhere?” The concept of being utterly anonymous was alien to one born with an identity. “I use false ID as a tool but deep down I’m Tariq Rashid Awi, complete with the story the sounds imply. A bureaucratic filing cabinet somewhere must have a folder with a date when this cute little female infant bounced into life.”

“My parents and apparently Sam, were the only ones who knew I was born. They never registered the event with any administration. That was one tangible gift from my father and my mother taught me to cherish it.”

“I’m sorry, but it sounds more like a denial than a blessing from him. Many men have sired children and then withheld legitimacy. The practice coined an epithet that I would never apply to you.”

“I’m not a bastard! My mom was as good as married when I was born. The choice of not naming me was an intentional one and it was out of love. Surnames pass from the father usually and it’s a portion of his immortality: his name will span generations. My father intentionally gave that up.”

Tariq looked at her on the last comment, but without responding and he noticed there was one other aspect of her truly nameless status. When she switched identities, the change was total. He didn’t think of her as Lyra or even as Katya anymore because her identity was now Fatima.

[Could you react right if called something other than Tariq?]

You’re still around? The Iranian hadn’t heard from Loki in awhile.

“Why do people really need passports anyways?”

“Besides armed border guards not allowing us into a nation without?”

“Sam was right about forged identification being instruments of healthy revolution and I’m correct about law being an oppression.” Fatima sighed. “Why have people put up with this abuse for so long?”

“We are bribed with comfortable lives.” His thoughts traveled back his pre 9/11 lifestyle. “Slaves are blessed by not having to do for themselves.”

“Putting our collective heads up our conjoined butts isn’t blocking out the problems anymore.” Fatima closed her eyes and a swarm of thoughts like angry wasps from a kicked nest buzzed around her brain. After a few moments, she had them tamed back into the tranquil honeycomb.

They dozed while a movie ran: afterwards, the lights were dimmed.

“Almost everyone here in business class is asleep.” The randy young female poked his ribs. “Let’s perform that romantic duet in the lavatory.”

“There is one label that does apply to women like you.” He chuckled. “I’ll give you a hint: it starts with nympho and ends in maniac.”

“I played a long lonely symphony with no percussion section.” Fatima wheedled. “Come on old man: I’ll put some boom-boom in your drum.”

“I can’t contort my decrepit body into the positions that would take.”

“I’m flexible enough,” she grinned excitedly, “to bend for both of us.”[private_Chevron]

“Oh alright.” The man heaved a heavy sigh as if he had just acquiesced to a horribly unpleasant duty. I’ve always secretly yearned to try this.

“~We’ve been watching you.” The taller of two Pakistani men spoke.

“~I’m writing a dissertation on the Islamic Jihad,” Tariq folded down the computer screen and offered seats, “~but I always have time to chat.”

“~Wealthy Saudi Arabians,” after introductions Ahmed’s eyes gave an indication of Tariq’s headdress being out of place, “~generally worship in the American temple of mighty dollars.”

“~Osama himself was a rich boy, but he found Allah.” The Iranian had adopted the Saudi look for the same reason he had on the golf course: that was to stand out—but subtly so. “~My family is not as well-heeled as his.”

“~The Christian bible has only sixty-six books,” the shorter of the men, Asham, offered an obtuse statement, “~but our Koran has sixty-seven.” His body matched his observance: it was somewhat thick too. His belly was as a basketball under the dingy white bedspread of his thobe.

“~Have a smoke with us?” Ahmed asked as the waiter arrived.

“~I gave up cigarettes.”

“~A shi sha filters the smoke through water.” Ahmed urged, “~it’s as a fire that’s been quenched: it can no longer burn.”

“~Which do you recommend?” The programmer shrugged and looked at the illustrated menu of available tobaccos.

“~All are flavorful,” Ahmed offered, “but I prefer the green apple.”

“~I’ll try that.” Tariq pointed to the menu picture of a plate of sliced fruit then looked back at his guests.

Ahmed was likely Indian with dark skin and handsomely proportional features. His turban was also worn in a Sikh style, carefully wrapped with a peak at his forehead. Asham’s flesh tone was lighter. His headgear was as if a crow had made a nest with black cloth swatches and the man’s nose was almost as prominent as a raven’s beak.

“~All government is foul as feces,” Ahmed resumed the conversation, “~and the Christians don’t flush their political toilets often enough.”

“~A dilemma,” Tariq scored a point by writing that gem down, “~is the American military crams a stinking governance up our offended nostrils.”

“~Islam has sixty-seven books.” Asham chirped again. Deeper ideas, like chicks in his head’s nest, hadn’t pecked out from their eggshells yet.

[His shovel should dig harder for some meaningful dirt.]

Tariq smiled at Loki’s jab because when seen in profile, Asham’s nose was the large tip of a face shaped like a spade.

The men switched to small talk while the intricate process of loading and lighting the shi sha pipes was accomplished. Ceramic bowls, shaped as inverted candlestick holders, were filled with rough-cut tobacco that was as sticky as if mixed with blackstrap molasses. Each was then fitted with a tinfoil cover that was perforated by deft stabs with a toothpick and placed atop an intricate chrome water pipe that stood as high as the tabletop, bedecked with brass bangles and scrollwork designs. Glowing cubes of charcoal, set carefully on the tinfoil with tongs, fired the tobacco inside.

The Iranian had moved to North America long before he was of age to smoke and had never tried this Arabic form. Having quit cigarettes after 9/11, his plan was to draw smoke into his mouth and then fake inhaling but that wasn’t possible. The diameter of the smoke hose was sufficient to siphon gasoline. That and the forearm’s length of fittings at the housing and mouthpiece held too much air volume to be all taken into the cheeks: it forced taking a lungful. He coughed, though the smoke was cool and mild.

[Western economics are as smoking a hookah—filled with hashish.]

“~I suspect the decadence in the west probably began when Sir Walter Raleigh returned with a shipload of tobacco.” Tariq took one last draw and set the tube across his lap. “~The product’s primary function is to cause a customer’s death and Capitalism’s goal seems to be in killing the planet.”

“~Sixty seven books.” Neither man understood Tariq’s hypothesis and Asham reiterated his worn theme but this time he expanded on it. “~Islam accepts the Christian prophets but they refuse to acknowledge ours.”

“~Every human being is born in a state of a pure nature.” Ahmed quoted the prophet Mohammad: then went on a tangent. “~The Christians give themselves the permission to sin by claiming they were born into it.”

“~A priest’s duty is to promote rampant sinning,” Tariq expanded on the premise, “~by making the infidel’s conscience feel easier on Sundays.”

“~Sixty-six books.” Asham nodded as if he’d added a snippet of value.

[Black head wraps must absorb radiant heat like a brain-baking oven.]

Then Asham’s pre-frontal loafs were probably sliced off to make toast.

The men talked until their pipes were finished. Although Tariq tried to lead the conversation into international politics, his efforts failed. Ahmed and especially Asham seemed keen only to talk about Islam.

“Nobody was eavesdropping,” the daughter reported after Ahmed and Asham left, “in fact, it was the reverse.” Fatima’s self-assigned duty when her father spoke, was to pay attention to the surrounding tables. “By the rolling eyes, I suspect most local people are tired of what those two men have to say. That guy over by the kebab grill,” she pointed with a nod of her chin, “said ‘today I don’t have to stuff cigarette filters in my ears’.”

“Apparently, Koran thumpers are considered almost as odious in the Islamic world as Bible pounding is in Christendom.” Tariq then noted the distance between the overheard man and the spy. “Your young ears could probably detect a mosquito’s sneeze from across a crowded karaoke bar.”

The programmer was also impressed by her quickly expanding grasp of Pakistan’s Urdu language. Fatima understood the Hindi tongue from her mother’s Indian background and that was a solid base to work from. She periodically used his laptop’s translation dictionary to find meanings.

“I’m intrigued to know the deeper theory,” Fatima had filed the tidbit in memory to ask later, “behind your smoke and entrepreneurs notion?”

“Loki’s mind was abuzz from tobacco and my objective was flicking away the gospel gnats as quickly as possible.”

“It might be a flippant comment that holds some hidden truth.” Fatima vowed to ponder it further when she had time. “Our technology is making innovative strides but business is eager for profit, so they reduce quality to the lowest edge of functionality and the resulting crap just falls apart.”

“Our planetary minerals go to littering landfill sites after giving only a negligible benefit, so our grandchildren will have to mine their needs from our refuse heaps.” The programmer expanded.

“Irreplaceable fossil fuels are frittered in warming the globe, building and transporting shoddy junk. Rampant consumerism is a crime against humanity’s future generations.”

“The profiteers have to swim in the earth’s pool too,” Fatima finished the shared thought, “and my time with Bob Wall showed me that the rich aren’t made all that happy by the wealth they acquire by peeing into it.”

“I’m finished for the day.” He packed up his laptop and paid the bill.

“Would it really be so difficult,” Fatima waited so she could follow, “to make products durable, upgradeable, recyclable and earth-friendly?”

“Seemingly it is.” Tariq collected the change and left a tip. “Highly fuel efficient cars would hurt the oil industry—and those who depend on it for a livelihood. Upgradable products would ultimately lead to slumps in sales—that might cripple the retailers and cause layoffs there.”

“Do you buy that tripe? The worst industries talk of the catastrophic economic woe that retooling involves, but these offending corporations are some of the wealthiest—so theirs is the only story on the news channel.”

“Oil would—.” The Iranian began but then realized it wouldn’t be on his own logic, but that supplied to him—by the news. “Give an example.”

“Doom and gloom predictions discount the human spirit. Fuel-efficient vehicles would hurt oil industry profits, and some would loose their jobs—but they could seek other employments. All though, would benefit from a reduced carbon footprint and having less gasoline off the family budget.”

“The price would rise: amounting to a nil benefit.”

“On what grounds? Less demand should make the supply a glut.” The girl ran for three paces: his longer legs made him hard to keep up with. “I know why you felt that way about the price though. We intrinsically know that profiteers will always seek to screw more money out of any situation.

The governments they own, and networks they control, would facilitate it.”

“We know it, but don’t like to think about it.” He arrived a crosswalk. It was painted with hash marks but none of the vehicles paid any attention. “This safe-zone is just a cruel joke—to lure pedestrians to a certain death.”

“This crosswalk is indicative of a fault in society,” Fatima took his arm and they bolted through an opening, “and it comes down to money. People with drive cars are generally affluent. Safe zones are painted to get votes but politicians cater to the rich—so enforcement isn’t a priority. Drivers suppose they own more of the road, because they paid higher taxes to build it and operate vehicles accordingly: at least some do and the rest follow.”

“Should civilization divest itself of the concept of currency?”

“Taking two Tylenol cures a headache but swallowing a whole bottle of them can injure or kill. Basing an economy on cash is fine, but a system of governance needs to be rooted in human values—and not monetary ones.”

“It would take money to publicize another agenda but those financially able to, have the most to loose if the status quo changes.”

“Exactly. The primary reason for not having fuel-efficient cars is the wealthy would miss out on the profits. Preventing the smaller folk loosing employment is just a media smoke-screen and a vote-getter.” The pathetic sidewalk they were now on wouldn’t have permitted two walking abreast. “Ordinary citizens don’t have the promised equal voice, even though they have a vote—because they don’t have enough money for a megaphone.”

“Americans suppose they want capitalism and democracy,” he inwardly winced: his previous incarnation would’ve rebelled over this topic, “but the first eliminates the actual fact of the second—when rampant capitalism is taken to the extreme—as it grossly is in the United States.”

“Someone like Bob Wall has more than enough to enjoy two-thousand lavish lifetimes—when he will only have the one. Meanwhile, hundreds-of-thousands or millions go without even the subsistence for a meager life. But well-viewed documentaries don’t cover that inequality, because over-wealthy people also own the major newspapers and broadcasting stations.”

“Bob’s apparent philosophy is incomprehensible to me.” The Iranian scanned the path ahead: a place was coming, where a concrete power pole took up part of the pedestrian way: a beggar had positioned there to further hinder foot traffic. “He has everything—but nothing that he truly values.”

“Wealth is as addictive and life-stealing as heroin is.” Junky Jinder’s daughter perceived the correlation. “At first the cash provides a high but it becomes an obsession.” She noted the panhandler had no deformities, and the rents in his rags seemed as done with a knife—for a contrived look of poverty. “The American dream is a hallucination in designer clothing.”

“Many people,” Tariq needed to step between the sitting man’s crossed legs to get by, “Bob included,” he turned to help Fatima, “peg self-worth to net-worth.” The beggar didn’t budge over to allow them an easy crossing. “The only way he can feel good about himself is to acquire more.”

“Bob Wall,” the ex-slave girl giggled, “or this annoying panhandler?”

“That is funny!” Tariq belly laughed. “But what poignant similarities exist between that excessively rich man and an able-bodied beggar?”

“He doesn’t really have a need,” they arrived back at their rooms, “but will use his all resources to block progress—just to acquire even more.”

“You wear that you wear underneath?” The programmer only had his back turned for a few seconds to lock the door: when he looked again she was wearing only panties and a black contraption strapped to her face.

“The burkha fabric,” she unclasped the harness, “chafes my cheeks.”

“It looks like something bought in an S&M boutique,” he chuckled and snapped the elastic t-band behind her skimpy g-string, “but I meant this.”

“You get to wear white,” Fatima playfully slapped his hand, “and that reflects away the sun. I nearly melt under all the dark material.” I also want to look good if a breeze blows the cloth against my body.

…

“I fished for a porn star,” Wall was atop an utterly motionless, spread-eagled female, “but snagged a starfish.” His motions became halfhearted. “I’m doing all the hard physical work for both of our pleasure.”

The female didn’t respond—she normally didn’t to him, but this time it was without even the slightest twitch. Wall did a push-up, to bring his face from the pillow. Her eyes had a far away look and her features were still.

“You’re exceptionally dead tonight.” Wall commented, and then did a mental double take. “She is dead!” Bob leaped to his feet in dread.

“What do I do?” In a panic, he paced around the bed—she still hadn’t moved a muscle or even blinked. His mind could’ve and should’ve been on possible first aid measures but instead, he wondered how he might hide the body. Her sudden death presented him with yet another dilemma.

“I need to think straight.” The CEO grabbed the heroin needle kit to freshen up his high. He took a shot in the washroom and then got a cooler from the fridge—he guzzled four in a row to steady his hands.

“How long do I have to arrange for disposal,” he drank his fifth vodka cocktail on the sofa whilst considering, “before her corpse starts to stink.”

“I’ve heard about guys dying during sex,” the liquor and drug had both kicked in and Wall found some humor in the situation, “but I can boast of my voracious passions, having killed a woman in bed.”

Oksana’s pale white ghost floated from the bedroom to the bathroom: seconds later, her poltergeist was heard opening up a faucet.

As he went check her cadaver, the software nerd’s inebriated mind was on contracting a voodoo practitioner to banish her restless spirit from his apartment. But the room was empty. In the background, a toilet flushed and after a moment, the ashen blond woman timidly returned to bed.

“Did the bimbo scare the crap out of me on purpose?” Bob asked while heading back to the kitchen for another bottle. His previous Russian sex slave may have, but he knew this one was without guile. The geek stayed awake for two hours and had four more drinks, to regain his composure.

…

“~Have you ever had one of those days,” Tariq squirmed in his chair, “~when passing wind would fill the under shorts with chocolate pudding?”

“~Do you mean—uh.” Ahmed’s forehead knurled under his turban as he sought a polite phraseology for diarrhea.

“~Yes,” the Iranian rubbed his solar plexus, “~with tapioca pellets.”

“~You’re not feeling very well?” Asham questioned.

“~Other than my bowels and a hemorrhoid swollen up like this,” Tariq held up a single finger, “~I don’t feel too badly.”

“~I’ll pray to Allah for your improved health.” Ahmed offered.

“~Throw in a good word for my feet as well.” The programmer laid it on thicker. “I have a rash in between my toes that I can’t identify.”

“~You might anoint them with oil.” Asham’s shovelnose unearthed a possible remedy found in holy text.

[Religious zealots don’t take subtle hints to get lost.]

“Unless you need an ambulance,” Fatima whispered into Tariq’s ear, “I’ll go find something more interesting to listen to.” She stood to leave, but as her chair was pushed back, the leg jostled an oscillating fan’s power cord. The unit tipped over and a strong wind blew up under her burnoose.
Fatima’s hands scrambled to protect her modesty, while Tariq put the fan back upright. That felt quite refreshing. The girl giggled as she left.

“~It is nearly to prayer time.” Ahmed was slightly flustered by what he had almost seen, and took his impure thoughts as a good excuse to leave.

“~Later.” The programmer waved as his unwelcome guests departed. He crossed his knees and pretended to put his attention onto his computer.

On the street, the Iranian watched an intricately painted truck unload a number of dust-encrusted men. Elsewhere in the world, such a garishly decorated vehicle might’ve stood out like a peacock in a flock of penguins but here they were commonplace. The item that garnered Tariq’s curiosity was that the Arabic men each had combat boots under their smocks. He watched as the troop trundled to the same café as his, but to a larger table on the furthest side away. Eight of the nine men took seats.

“~Get them a round of beer and shi sha.” The leader ordered for his squad and tugged off his turban to display a shaved head. His men doffed headgear too. Islamic tradition frowned on alcohol but coffee didn’t wash desert grit from a throat as effectively as ale did. The large man spun on a Desert Eagle boot heel and strode over to the writer.

“You would be Tariq Muhammad.” The captain dropped into a chair left vacant by Asham and Ahmed’s departure. “I was ordered to grant you a few moments of my time.”

“I’m—uh,” this had come to Tariq as a complete surprise: Bijan was to arrange something but the programmer had expected it to be somewhat more formal, “writing a dissertation.”

“Some men are talkers,” the jihad commander mocked, “while others are the doers. I’m Kareem and I’m of the latter group.”

[Is that the first name or the last?] Loki wondered but they would soon enough learn that it was both.

“Can you tell me of your cause?” The Iranian began: he was pleasantly surprised by his contact’s automatic use of English, and his fluency in it.

“I do whatever I’m asked to.” The jihad man answered disinterestedly and his eyes strayed to where his squad-mates were laughing and joking.

“My readers will be interested in your thoughts and feelings.”

“I’m just a soldier: my personality doesn’t enter into it.”

[At least he hasn’t changed the topic to liquid craps yet.]

Kareem is as thrilled by my discussion as I was with the Koran twins. The programmer couldn’t let the bored officer go though: he needed this contact too badly. At that moment, Fatima returned to her customary spot.

“This is my daughter Fatima.” Tariq introduced but the soldier didn’t seem particularly excited by a largely unseen female either.

This is not going well at all. Fatima assessed the situation as Tariq was unsuccessfully trying to elicit more than perfunctory comments. Another ten minutes of conversation had brought barely a scrap of new information, and all the preparation efforts were in eminent danger of being wasted.
I have my female artillery, but it is all ineffectively locked in a shed. The abaya camouflaged her body and the burkha showed only her eyes, outlined in heavy mascara, and a delicate henna tattoo on her upper cheek.

“Ah-choo.” Fatima faked a sneeze and the man reacted as expected by looking at her face—she batted her eyelashes, but he turned his attention away after barely a pause. That was a pathetic effort: I can do better.

After another moment, she had contrived her next ploy. She casually removed a silver snake ring from her finger and played with it idly, until Kareem’s wandering attention landed on the item. Fatima squeezed it hard and as planned, the ring squirted from her fingers and onto the floor.

Now, I can show off the general form I have stashed under this tent. She stood quickly and under a guise of retrieving her possession, she bent away from the seated men. Behold the shape of a young female’s pert butt.

Then, the unexpected happened. The fan she had knocked over earlier, again tumbled. This time though, her hands were both occupied and near the floor. The sudden wind ballooned up under her shift and the material flew like a black umbrella inverted by a sharp gust. Fatima had planned on giving him a hint of what was underneath. Instead, the jihad commander saw her whole lower half, viewed in close up, and clad only a red g-string.

[That was as unsubtle as Thor’s hammer is blunt.]

The partially naked female’s reactions were faster than an asp’s strike. She swiveled and dropped to a squat. Her nimble fingers clasped at the flyaway cloth and she gathered it to her ankles. Fatima stood sheepishly and her one hand scooped the coiled snake bauble on her way up.

The Egyptian cobra’s rapid acting venom is a neurotoxin and Kareem’s brain was almost instantly paralyzed: as if in respiratory failure, his words were gone too. Exactly as the Russian boy had been from first sight of this girl standing naked in the wreckage of her tsunami ravaged home, the jihad commander was irrevocably hooked.

“I’m sorry.” She really was repentant. That was some major overkill. The girl noted that Tariq had picked the fan up again: as he had done the last time. On the other hand, Kareem had not moved a single muscle.

“Uh,” the Arab man finally found his voice: he turned his face to the writer, “I apologize for seeming abrupt but we have just returned from a mission. After I’ve rested, we can have a more productive talk.”

…

But Fatima’s titillating faux pas hadn’t been the only unexpected flash of female skin occurring on that side of the world. Bob Wall was also due for an unpleasant peek at some scandalous Arabic flesh.

The CEO rubbed his red eyes and switched on his computer. He typed ‘boinkbob’ at the password prompt and then strolled to his office wet-bar and coffee counter.

“Enter.” He responded to a knock. Is he a psychic? Bob wondered at his underling’s seemingly unerring foreknowledge of his work schedule.

In fact, Collin had fitted his workstation with an audible alarm to alert him whenever the CEO’s computer logged onto the corporate server. The boss had become far too erratic to predict by other methods.

“I’m as dry as a cottonmouth rattler,” Wall smacked his lips and poured some water, “crunching stale popcorn in a Gobi desert heat wave.”

“I’ll assume from your cheery greeting that you haven’t yet seen the news.” Collin spent the next few moments describing the porn debacle currently unfolding in Asia. “It will take more than just H2O to douse the hot winds blowing around your customer’s venomous fangs.”

“Let me see it!” The chief’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, but his brain was fuzzed from his hangover and the late-nigh heroin binge.

“I’ll do it for you.” The younger executive spied the predicament and swiveled the monitor so both could see. In several mouse clicks and a few strokes on the upside-away keyboard, the ‘Vixens in Veils’ video played.

“That camel-humping,” the CEO’s voice rasped like a desert wind over the sand dunes of his tonsils, “son of a dingo bitch!”

“This stunt does cast suspicion towards Riyadh,” the asshole joked as his pointer brought up other details of the Asian incident, “or maybe you suspect Canberra of having something to do with it.”

“Does Omani come from Australia?” Bob missed the jibe on his mixed slur. Camels are native to Arabian arid regions but a dingo is a wild dog in Australia’s Outback. “He sent a major client down-under last week too.”

“I haven’t found anything connecting Ghazi to that cancelled contract.”

“The Persian theme in this porno is proof positive.” The visuals were soft-core but they gave Bob’s ire a raging hard-on. “I’ll bake that Saudi sand-ape’s severed balls like spitted shrimps on my barbeque.”

“That culinary method is called rotisserie roasting.” Though the words seemed mocking, Hersker’s face was pensive. “Baking testicles requires a closed oven with convection or radiant heat.”

“What possible difference does that make?” Wall’s anger shifted from the Sheik to his subordinate rectum.

“I suspect I’ll be your cookout’s gonad chef,” Collin countered, “and my optimum testes recipe calls for a controlled temperature setting.”

“If you’re trying to bait me, you’re being a master at it.”

“After I showed you the video of the streaking lawyers,” the boss had intentionally insulted, but Collin ignored it, “I had a premonition of today.”

“Extrasensory perception is whacked,” Bob was upset from not fully understanding the conversational thread, “and off the topic.”

“I got your solo-sex message the first time.”

“I need a morning caffeine fix.” Wall fetched a cup from a machine.

“You hired me to conduct corporate takeovers to increase your political influence.” Collin correctly surmised that his employer’s denseness and irritability was a result of substance abuse. “The Arabic programmer on your vandalized boat, a Saudi stealing lawyer’s clothing, and this Middle-Eastern porn shenanigan has me seeing a connect-the-dots puzzle.”

“Draw the picture out for me,” the CEO took a half-cup swallow of his brain-straightening caffeine, “and use a wide-tipped felt marker.”

“If Ghazi is behind these pranks,” Collin got a beverage too, “then it’s a childish game.” I feel like a hired classmate, protecting a wimp from a big bad bully. “But I don’t play in schoolyards anymore.”

“I don’t wear short pants either.” The computer geek meant he wasn’t in a school uniform but in fact, his trousers often did show too much of his socks. “This assault is the last one I’m going to take without fighting back. First, we’ll file suit against Ghazi bin Omani for damages. Then, I’ll kick him right where his nuts are going to hurt the worst.”

“I surmise your foot would be aimed at his crotch,” Hersker’s grin was because Bob’s clumsy analogy fit better than the CEO realized: the man’s quizzical, and hung-over visage also looked quite silly, “but I know a place where his male genitalia might be clustered for a stronger strike.”

“Do you have a scheme for a good under-the-belt uppercut?”

“If your revenge calls for a similar but bigger corporate sabotage,” the special executive stopped his beverage fixing to reflect on his decision to stay on, “then you can find someone else to pull it off.”

“I’m not sure what I want,” Bob’s anger waned, “but if we hit him hard enough, maybe he will leave us alone.”

“If you pull a dirty trick in response it will escalate the hostilities.” The asshole strolled back to his seat and sipped his coffee to allow suspense to percolate into a stronger brew. “You’re successful in contests with small foes because you can bring heavy blunt force in to stun opposition. This is different: the bin Omani cartel is a big player. Ghazi is vicious, arrogant and he’s been in tougher street-fights than you have. If he has instigated the attacks then it’s because he isn’t afraid of you.”

“There is no if. He deliberately provoked me,” Bob’s hand gestured to provocative screen action, “and he left this taunt. Can I just let this slide?”

“Sheik Ghazi bin Omani is aggressive and fearless but those could be weakness too: they will make him predictable. Even so, if you enter a slugfest with him—you’ll both be bloodied in the ring.”

“So what’s the tactic?” The CEO was rife with anticipation.

“You buy his company out from underneath him.”

“We buy—.“ Bob’s mind reeled with the staggering proposal. “Omani Group is too big. That idea is not even in the realm next door to reality.”

“His corporation is large and strong,” Collin had researched this well, “but so is yours. The treasury is plump with a highly successful upgrade.”

“Nobody could envision it coming.” Bob recalled how shocked he had been when Oksana was seemingly dead, and then alive just as quickly.

“You bite some chewable chunks off his organization.” The specialist elaborated. “That might get his dander up and perhaps he won’t opt for playing defensively. If Ghazi becomes angry enough to try buying Wall Soft out instead, then—Gulp!” Collin made the sound dramatic.

“I swallow bin Omani Holdings!” Visions of power-plums danced in Bob’s head: Santa was filling his stocking—big time. “Start today!”

“La vengeance,” Collin spoke French, “est un plat qui se mange froid.”

“Huh?” Wall’s mind was still jingling bells on his Christmas thoughts.

“Revenge is a dish that is best served cold.”

“Right, Ricardo Montalban.” Bob nodded. “From the Wrath of Kahn.”

“Or maybe Pierre Ambroise François Choderlos de Laclos. From Les Liaisons Dangereuses, where Hollywood stole it.”

“Okay.” Bob didn’t understand French any more than a Russian girl’s nattering. “We’ll give Ghazi a Ramadan that has him praying for mercy.”

“Make sure I have a healthy war chest to work with. Otherwise your butt could be up in the air—and pointing away from Mecca.”[/private_Chevron]

…

“Two—three—four.” Halfway. Tariq paused with the barbell at full arm’s extension before lowering it for his next repetition. Positioned on his back for pectoral presses, the scruffy gym’s interior was largely out of view but a twang of sweat left no sensory doubt of the room’s appearance.

[Like radar paints an image with sound for a bat, so would the aroma in here give pungent focus to a hound dog.]

“Five and six.”

[Our Freya gives us strenuous workouts.] Loki complained.

“That’s cardiovascular.” The man muttered as he did the last two reps. Some of the girl’s tantric positions were also stretching and limbering. Weight training keeps up muscle tone—I thought you know what I do?

[I just skim through the boring bits of your brain’s encyclopedia.]

With his preplanned number reached, Tariq was about to place the weight back onto the hooks when a face showed over the knurled bar.

“Do you want a spotter?” Kareem assisted in maneuvering the barbell.

“I just finished this set,” Tariq wasn’t intending to use heavier weight so a safety person wasn’t actually required, “but sure.”

“I push much more than this,” the younger Arabic man scrutinized the bar and his fingers assisted his tally of the weight. Kareem removed one bar collar while his workout partner unscrewed the other.

“I’ll spot for you while I recover for my next.” Tariq matched the mass of the disks the other man was taking: it was more weight than he should lift with cold muscles. In a bodybuilding testosterone contest, there is only one loser and no winner. The programmer watched the bulky Arab take a wide grip. Kareem’s poor form will give him a mechanical disadvantage.

“What are the aim and the purpose of your book?” Kareem strained and pushed the bar to his start position. “One.”

[That wasn’t one yet. It’s not even a half.]

“It’s a treatise on how the Al Qaeda organization benefits our society.” Tariq smiled at the ploy. He’s not sure he can do the whole eight and has slyly reduced it to seven.

“Al Qaeda is opposing the capitalist infidels.” Kareem took a deep breath and began his set.

“Two—Three.”

“They also give common people hope and that’s what I’m studying.”

“Five—Six.” Kareem’s face was bulging and red from overexertion.

[Doesn’t the number four fit somewhere in sequential counting?]

Isn’t it painfully obvious why he omitted it? Tariq could see Kareem had hit his maximum already. His intakes of breath were so heavy that his nostrils weren’t of sufficient caliber. Those next two will be a real bitch.

“Seven.” The jihad soldier’s arms were shaking like his muscles were fish wiggling on his bones. He lowered the bar, but only marginally before going for a final raise. His under-conditioned elbow sinews were critically overtaxed and locked after pushing the barbell only a hand width higher.

[Let him take a bite on that iron hot-dog.]

“Eight!” Kareem’s count before the lift’s finish echoed as a help plea.

“Good job.” Tariq took the load. “That was an awful lot of weight.”

“I normally go heavier but my shoulder has a previous hurt.” The hefty man rubbed his feigned injury. “I should’ve let it heal up a bit more.”

[He works out his jaw muscles under some big golden arches.]

“I know what that’s like.” Tariq busied himself in reducing the weight and his eyes strayed to the back of Kareem’s skull while he was bending to rack a disk. A brown dome stood atop three thick rolls of neck flab.

[It’s a crusted-over cow flop on the hillocks of his shoulders.]

Fat men really shouldn’t shave their heads. They especially shouldn’t allow it go to stubble. The creases were sharply demarked where the dark bristly hairs folded together. A monk’s tonsure would even hide that nicer.

“I know many things,” satisfied that his show of might was impressive Kareem presented a carrot of knowledge, “that might assist your study.”

Chapter 16 of Loki’s Trojan

The Old Dog Knew Tricks and Wagged a Tale

[private_Chevron]“Precisely how legitimate is this passport?” The programmer examined her document. “I’m not an expert but I think it should bear the mark of a border crossing. Maybe Russian citizens are also supposed to have a visa.”

“Mom had a good source of identifications.” Lyra regretted not paying attention to Jinder’s logistics. “I’ve crossed borders and taken flights.”

“Not in North America though. Here, frontier officials are especially obnoxious.” Tariq sighed. “Well, life has been wonderful while we lasted as an item, but now you need meet the infamously suave Don Juan Levy.”

“You suspect I’m fickle?” She was slightly unsure if he was kidding.

“I’ll find that out for certain.” Tariq handed the document back as he unlocked the car. “A test of your fidelity awaits.” He’s older than I am.

“If you’re unsure if he can be trusted,” Lyra’s tone registered concern over the Iranian’s seeming reluctance, “I can hold off on crossing borders.”

“I have confidence in his not betraying our information,” Tariq grinned guiltily—or was it teasingly, “but he and I also have thousands of years of bad blood between us: Sam might just cuckold me out of spite.”

“Are you trying to worry me,” the young woman threw her valise into the back seat before settling into the passenger side, “or intrigue me?”

The drive from Windsor to Toronto went swiftly on the 401 highway and they arrived at a small printing shop on a quiet commercial street.

“I assumed you were away plucking figs at an oasis.” The shopkeeper was careful saying the line, to ensure it sounded as harvesting fruit.

“Lyra, meet Sam Levy.” Tariq spoke if performing a distasteful duty. “If you feel a hand caressing your butt—check your wallet.”

“Lira.” The old man’s eyes locked onto her face and it took him a long moment to think of a snide retort. “Did the Arab steal you from Rome?” Before shaking her hand, he wiped his on his smudged printer’s smock.

“He called 1-800-4-A-Harum,” Lyra smiled at Sam’s futile gesture. His palm was likely cleaner before he wiped it on that grimy jacket.

“Ha!” The forger hooted. “The two of you came to gang up on me but I’m not worried. With him on your side, I’ve still got you outnumbered.”

“Did we catch you when you have some time to talk?” Tariq asked but truthfully, he couldn’t recall ever having seen another patron in this store.

“Lock the door and switch off the sign. Customers haven’t beat down my door today so why should I hold it open for them?” Sam took the girl’s elbow. “Now you and I have plenty of time to fool around while sand boy here, bumbles his way though those two overly complicated tasks.”

“Tariq didn’t forewarn me,” Lyra followed his lead into an adjoining living space, “of what a rakishly handsome devil you are.”

“Once upon a time I would’ve convinced myself you were flirting with me,” the wizened man looked askance knowingly, “but alas, a man’s life comes when he recalls chasing pretty girls—but he can’t remember why?”

“Stimulating the appropriate synapse could prod the memory banks.” Lyra hugged his frail arm and tickled a spot behind his ear. “It might be engrained in muscle memory—like riding a bicycle.”

“Busy your shapely butt making tea,” the two had arrived in the small kitchen area: Sam could hear

Tariq’s footfalls from behind. “While we geriatrics watch— and undress you with our eyes.”

“I could easily save you from excessively straining your imagination.”

“1-800-show-off.” The Jewish man feigned exasperation. “You Arabs and your petroleum money! Your first wells were directionally drilled and targeted at sucking all the oil out from underneath Israel.”

“That nation already had plenty of crude on the surface.”

“Other than stirring up my long forgotten pot of envy,” the forger sat at a kitchen table, “what brings you two banging on my door?”

“For starters, Lyra needs reliable documentation.” Tariq then went on to discuss the specialized requirements of his plan.

“A camel is often called the ship of the desert,” Sam’s smirking face swung to the girl, “because they’re frequently filled with Arabic seamen.”

“On that dryly nautical note,” Tariq chuckled, “and as our business is done, I’ll take off. As we sand-sailors say—I’ll be back by about 8 bells.”

“If you’ll be returning at eight PM that would be 1-bell,” Sam offered offhandedly, “as it is the start time of the first shift in the 24 hour rotation.”

“How do you come by such eclectic information?” The programmer laughed as he stood. “But asking why you keep such inane trivia stored in memory, is possibly the better question.”

“An old man’s memories are a fickle bitch. I can’t remember what was in my food dish three hours ago and the last time I humped a lady’s leg has faded to a dim recollection,” Sam sighed, “but I have a doggone good recall of times before this whelp was a gleam in her dad’s mangy eye.”

“I could freshen up the one,” the girl winked lasciviously, “and set you barking to the ringing of more than seven bells.”

“I do have to go.” The Iranian-Canadian stood. “Can I trust you two alone together while I’m gone?”

“No.” Two voices emphatically spoke together.

“I didn’t think so.” He left anyways.

“Come sit with me on the couch.” Sam Levy tottered to his feet. “Talk of memories and mongrels has helped me to decide what I have to do.”

“You want to get started right away?”

“I know more about you than you think I do.” His face was serious. “From just your eyes, I knew you the instant you walked in the door and I already know your passport is fine because I made it.”

Sam turned as she had stopped still in the hallway. “Come and sit before you fall down.” He chuckled at her mouth’s fly-catching expression. “I’ve watched you grow up in identification photos.”

“You knew my mother?” She dropped boneless on the over-soft sofa.

“And your father too: your dad was my lifelong best friend.”

“Was?”

“I’ve received news he recently passed away.” The forger retrieved a wooden cigar box from an antique cabinet drawer. “I won’t show some things in this collection but here are a few of your family photos.”

“I’ll settle for seeing anything you will allow me.” Tears had filled her eyes and they threatened to spill down her cheeks. In my full lifetime, I’ve never seen my father and out of nowhere— I’ve met his close confidant!

“Here is a picture of him when he was very young.” Sam handed her a yellowed photo. It depicted a boy who was barely into his teens.

“You knew him for that long?” This boy is oddly recognizable to me.

“From even before this was taken. Throughout, our lives have bumped continuously. One day you’ll know the full saga, but not today.”

“He was handsome,” the girl commented on a second picture, “and I do have his eyes.” Another similar face popped into her mind, but she sent it away as being an irrelevant thought or just a random coincidence.

“That one was taken when he only a few years older than you are now.” The man sifted through his stash for more images he could safely present.

“Mom said,” the girl studied the image, “he never allowed pictures.” This is peculiar: my mind’s eye always envisions him looking like this.

“He was leery around cameras,” Sam cleared his throat on the touchy topic, “especially when he wasn’t sure who would see the images.”

“My mother’s drug use made her untrustworthy.” It wasn’t a first time that heroin had caused her disappointment. “Here mom and dad together.” The uncomfortable subject passed as quickly as it had come: she compared the photo beside her face. “I can see my taste for older men is inherited.”

“That was my exact thought when you came in with that Iranian cradle-robber.” Sam next dealt out a series of small full-face images. “I’ve saved copies of your pictures from every passport I’ve ever made for you.”

“You kept my mother supplied with our living expenses.” The young woman noted that for every two pictures she saw, the man was tucking one away unseen. I’ll figure out a way to wheedle those out of him too.

“I was just doling out your father’s resources as per his instructions.”

“I’m almost certain she is also dead.” Lyra looked up from her perusal.

“I thought I lost you both in the Tsunami.” Sam put the unviewed material back into his memento box. “I even went to Thailand for a look.”

“You’re kinda like my godfather.”

“No, I’m exactly as your godfather because I do have that distinction.” Sam’s eyes misted over as if he recalled the event. “We didn’t adhere with legal protocols. It was a solemn pact between men who were as brothers.”

“Why didn’t he contact me?” She spread the photos like a bridge hand. “A picture’s worth a thousand words but these spark that many questions.”

“That’s complex and I’m honor bound not to reveal it yet.”

“I don’t understand why you can’t just tell me.” I’ll work my feminine wiles. She pouted slightly and lowered her eyes to appear dejected. A tiny whimper would fit but that may be overdoing it.

“You told me he’s dead.”

“I’ve had too many dealings with your family,” Sam chortled, “not to see right through what you’re adroitly attempting.”

The old Jewish man was on the couch with the girl beside when Tariq returned. Her feet were curled up under her body and she was pressed into the old man’s shoulder, while listening to some of his many war stories.

“Am I back too soon?” The Iranian had admitted himself with a key. “Or already too late to prevent the immoralities of an infidel?”

“We got off to a promising start,” Sam boasted, “but given my age, we had to make an appointment for her to be here when I’m about to finish.”

…

“We could stay here,” the programmer gave the girl her first look at his studio apartment, “or continue sleeping at Sam’s place.” His short absence from the forger’s place and a few subsequent ones had been to set this up.

“Is there a bed?” Lyra could see the sofa that would doubtlessly fold out but wanted him to prove it. As had been the case in Seattle, the living space was geared towards making computers the most comfortable.

“I don’t trust Sam’s floorboards.” He pulled out a hide-a-bed. “Some exuberance on this won’t find us unexpectedly touring Levy’s basement.”

“What have we got running?” Her attention turned to the computer.

“I’m monitoring activities at Wall Soft, as usual.” The Iranian grabbed the bed and was about to fold it up but with a wink, she stayed his hand. “I also have some major work in sifting through all Omani Corp’s lost files.” The hacker had downloaded all Jericho’s protected information, before destroying it at the source. He nodded at a bank of two servers: the LED pegs blinked faster than Christmas tree bulbs on meth-amphetamines. “Those are still busy downloading data from my Bell Town address.”

“Is that workstation for me?” Lyra pointed to a corner unit.

“Of course.” He hadn’t set it up for her: he often used an extra. Tariq cracked his knuckles over a keyboard. “I guess we should get busy then.”

“My exact thoughts.” The girl’s eyes fell wantonly on the foldout bed.

“I’m glad you’ve chosen a newer profession than the oldest,” he joked at her seeming insatiability, “or you would quickly cost me my fortune.”

“Only the first was free. Now, I’m charging it to your credit account.”

…

In Kiev, an overweight man was nursing a self-inflicted wound: his hangover was exacerbated by the inactions of a thin man. The table stakes Sergey had placed on his golden scheme were now more than he could afford to loose and the glitter showed as just a foil over plain plaster.

“~That self-serving rich bastard cheated me!” Sergey Yanderiev took a nearly empty vodka bottle from his desk: he swallowed the dregs. His eyes fell onto his monitor again and anger was as a match touched to the alcohol in his belly. “~I got the promised link alright—but only on the Ukraine regional sub-unit of his international web portal.”

The money off that would be fractions of pennies compared to a banner displayed on the international network. The furious mobster tried dousing an unquenchable internal fire with a chaser drink of grapefruit juice. Those flames were further stoked as he recalled his brother’s unexpected visit.

‘~The videotaped disciplining has angered Max’s powerful kinsman.’ Georgey had noted with an oily smirk. ‘~Your best henchman can’t help you because he was killed along with our cousin Boris.’

‘~That was an insignificant setback in my overall plans.’ The Obshina downplayed the devastating loss but it sounded hollow: because it was. He wondered who the spy was: his brother gained his accurate information awfully fast. Sergey watched as his elder sibling ambled to the wet bar.

Georgey’s hairline had receded already past his crown but he made no attempt to hide it. Instead, he had grown the remaining fringe long enough to form a ponytail in the back. His grey moustache was similarly long and the tips were waxed into curled handlebars.

‘~Hitler suffered such tiny annoyances on his Eastern front,’ the older brother recalled the invasion of Russia as an appropriate analogy, ‘~and so in the finish, he lacked the sufficient resources take Moscow.’

‘~Bob Wall has bowled lucky balls up my alley,’ the mob kingpin was as a headpin, wobbling alone with the fallen in disarray around, ‘~but I still own his gutters and that will pay me for all.’

‘~You can’t survive to collect your benefactor’s reward unless I protect your operation from Groznyy.’ Georgey’s larger frame made him seem as a Kodiak hugging a Grizzly bear as he put a furry arm around Sergey’s shoulder. ‘~Brothers may squabble but behind the fists—they are still kin.’

‘~State your terms Georgey.’ The pronunciation was as gay-orgy.

‘~I’ll take over your girls and business in Kiev, until you’ve recovered the strength to hold it. After your American patron makes good,’ Georgey poured a shot from a fresh bottle, ‘~you can buy your interests back.’

“~But the sneaky geek has reneged.” Back in the present moment, the lack of good search engine results for the Soviet Sluts website clearly showed a blatant snub. The alcohol and juice in Sergey’s belly lurched, as if the drinks were vinegar and soda water that sent sour bile into his throat. “~A verbal agreement is only worth the paper it is written on and since it wasn’t signed in ink, the Yankee may have to honor it with his blood.”

…

“Your old ID is still good as a spare but the name could’ve led to some obvious complications.” Sam added a sales pitch. “Just like soiled socks, it’s a good idea to change out the old moniker periodically anyways.”

“Katya Kharkov.” The girl thumbed through the new passport that held a few frontier stamps and the appropriate visas. “Katya means purity.”

“That was a poor choice,” Sam thoughtfully stroked the white stubble on his chin, “given the reprobate you’ve hooked up with.”

“How real is my identity?” Lyra claimed the name, and Katya went on from there. “I never thought about the ones mom gave me.”

“This set is as good as a counterfeiter can generally do.” The man was a master and justifiably proud of his work. “It’ll suffice for practically all usage but I don’t recommend filing income tax with it. To be fair to the name’s co-owner, don’t take out any big loans you don’t intend to repay.”

“Throw it to me.” The programmer was on the other side of a shelving unit and casually browsing: he caught her toss.

“You didn’t print that,” she glanced at the obsolete copy machines Sam had on display, “on any of these.” In answer, Sam simply put a hushing finger to his lips and grinned enigmatically.

“What first put you in this line of work?” Oblivious to the exchange, the Arabic Canadian continued snooping through the shop’s inventory.

“I’ve forged documents for nearly as long as paper has been around.”

“Probably not as long as this papyrus.” Tariq held up a sheaf of paper that had yellowed with age: Levy still had it up for sale—at a dear price.

“I’ve seen a number of bad governments,” Sam ignored the slur to give the girl a better answer, “and worked for some too. The last line of defense people have is a thriving sub-culture and I support that in my own way.”

“Do you ever feel guilty,” the Iranian asked, “when something heinous is committed with the assistance of your work?”

“Far worse is often done in support of law,” the counterfeiter observed, “than any criminal acts against the law.”[/private_Chevron]

“Law as a slavery principle in action.” Katya fiddled with the point-of-sale tools. “I was held in captivity and Bob thought of me as his slave—but my mind and soul weren’t owned. His keeping me was against the law, but his wealth made him immune to it. Now that I’m free—I am truly at liberty. I won’t bow to law as my master either.”

“Am I the only law-abiding citizen here?” Tariq bemusedly asked.

“Appropriately,” the girl accidentally hit the ‘no-sale’ key on Sam’s old-fashioned register and the cash drawer opened, “one definition of the word ‘abiding’ is putting up with something distasteful.”

“Be careful of what you’re messing with,” Tariq paused: he was about to finish his sentence with, ‘law is in place to protect people,’ but he was leery of saying it. I’m not sure I could win that argument if it comes under debate. He chickened out and nodded at the cash register, “you’ll confuse Sam’s accountant into wrongly thinking some inventory actually moved.”

The programmer was relieved when the conversation ended. The topic was oddly disturbing to him—but in a way he couldn’t mentally nail down.

[If you paddle deeper your oars might actually hit some water.][private_Chevron]

…

“What’re you working on?” Katya took a break from her computer.

“Ghazi’s morass of companies loop into each other in an endless maze and I need to sift through to find out which ones he uses for dirty work.”

“What do you think about,” she spun her chair around, “judgment?’

[I’m interested in hearing this too.]

“Death threw nine innings of curveballs into my afterlife’s game plan.” His first instinct was throwing out a quip but he knew that would float as far as cast-iron life jacket. “Before 9/11, I was a staunch atheist but my opinion was wavering even before my death experience.”

“While Dmitri and I wandered the tsunami’s path,” the female scooted her casters over, “I imagined the souls ascending—like in my death dream. I saw the Thai spirit houses and a part of my vision could almost detect the wisps inhabiting them. The funny thing was, I seemed almost able to see an essence in the living too—and mine somehow communicated with it.”

Tariq’s immediate thought was a remembrance of his trying to send her comfort through the keyboard—but he didn’t mention it.

“I seemed to understand people better than I did before. I could read Dmitri’s intentions like a comic book. Yes, he was painfully obvious, but it went further than that and my john at the Bangkok pool was a clincher. Though he was subtle, I knew precisely what he wanted and I understood his character before talking to him.” Katya didn’t elaborate on the details.

“You judged him?” The programmer’s mind flew to the moment in his death experience when he felt his life adjudicated.

“I did and that swayed my actions. He needed something from me.”

“He wanted sex,” Tariq discounted, “and he bought it.”

“He only got a little before—,” Katya paused seeking a description.

“The temple of his wakefulness collapsed, leaving one pillar standing.”

“I assessed my mother harshly,” she smiled at his humorous metaphor, “because of her prostitution and vowed I would never go the same route—then suddenly, I approached a strange man and offered myself for money. Retrospectively, I didn’t do it for either the sex or the cash.”

“You were at a crossroads.”

“I suspect he was too and that we assisted each other in ways neither of us knew. Openly going with him enabled me to stay with Dmitri. Perhaps my John needed punishment was I granting him an opportunity of a grossly expensive and failure with what he deemed an ideal female. I didn’t just quietly leave: I humiliated him by tying my panties to his member. Might I have provided him with the impetus for a positive life change?”

[Judge not, lest thou be judged.] Loki nudged the conversation back.

“We both believe our souls exist.” He saw her nod. “Most organized religions concur and include judgment in one form or another. For the Christians and Islam, God is the ultimate judge:
Buddhists and other Asians have kismet or karma assigning punishments in a next incarnation. You suggest individuals judge on a soul level and I can buy that theory. I’ve sometimes felt a decision of mine—was greater than just my own.”

[Will you tell her about the woman in the tower’s elevator?]

I haven’t even discussed that incident with you.

“The conscience allows people to judge and individually dish out the appropriate rewards and punishments,” where her fingers had been stroking his leg—she pinched, “because we are ultimately accountable for our acts.”

“I suspect I’m not going to like where this talk is now headed.”

“Where the concept fails dismally though,” as he predicted, she shifted topics, “is at the intermediate level. An impersonal law system has neither the soul’s intuition nor its accountability. When courts fail to bring justice or cause wrongful harm, law holds itself as immune to any recrimination.”

“Law is better than vigilantism.” Tariq wasn’t sure if he even held that as true anymore. “Sam will blow his head’s gasket,” he took a burned data disk from the slot, “when his source material isn’t on carved stone tablets.”

“I suspect,” Katya recalled the forger’s hushing finger, “the old coot is more technologically advanced than he lets on,” she traced a fingertip up Tariq’s neck to his ear lob as if checking for a fluid leak, “but seemingly you’re more worried about the lubricant pressure in your own brain pan.”

…

“Justice in the U.S. is non-existent.” Katya read the heading line from a printed sheet. “Your griddle seems to have flipped a fast waffle.”

“It’s an article published in the Islamic Jihad Journal.” The Iranian’s feet were up on his desk and his hands behind his neck. “Read the rest.”

‘American justice system,’ the girl read quietly, ‘is anything but just.’

“One can’t blame just the U.S. for the sham that law globally is.”

“I wrote it,” Tariq grinned, “and got it published.”

“Are we going to talk about this?”

“Digest it first, and we’ll debate it for dessert.”

…

‘Examine any decadent American courthouse: a lonely accused sits on the one side, with the entire weight of the state arrayed against him. The fact he is there means one of two things: he didn’t pay police to bollocks up the investigation or his attorney’s ulterior plan is maximizing his fees.’

“~What is this?” In Damascus, the editor-in-chief of the Islamic Jihad Journal was scanning the same article. “~I didn’t approve this.”

“~The source is,” the technical manager had investigated, “~uh, solid.”

“~I’ll be the judge of that.” Bijan Kiani read some more.

‘Both barristers present an opposed set of paid off expert witnesses. To replace precluded television watching, a jury’s entertainment is watching how a trivial piece of evidence manipulated to show a slant for one side or the other. Really though, that is all it is—a staged performance of a farce.’

“~The piece was inserted directly into our working file.”

“~We were hacked into then.”

“~I checked that.” Sanjar Ali Abbas showed a tech printout. “~The article and emails the owner sends come from the same IP number.”

“~If he wanted me to print something,” the editor’s nose caught a phantom wisp of something fishy, “~all he needed to do was ask.”

‘The truth is a 50% certainty of a coin flip is as statistically accurate as the adversarial trial system is able to achieve. Why don’t they just toss the coin at the outset and save time and money? Why indeed, the answer is simple. Cash saved would’ve been shaved from the legal bill.’

“~What do we do about it? It’s too late to reprint the issue.”

“~It’s not overly well-written and I’m not certain this is what we want to say.” The editor had a minor epiphany. “~Unless, the owner has a new idea.” If he rocked the refitted boat, they may look for a different skipper.

…

‘Whether the jury returns with guilty or not: the true result is always a loss for justice. If the accused was innocent, what difference does it make? His savings were wiped out to pay his defense and witnesses. His reputation has been muckraked and his family is in shambles.’

‘The Americans use a female statue to represent their legal system. In one hand, she holds a scale to show that gold must be weighed before the sword in her other swings—at anyone not shielded by money. Lady Justice wears a blindfold to mask her shame—she is an embarrassment.’

“This Tariq Muhammad character does have tongue-in-cheeky charm,” Katya finished the article, “but why and how was it accomplished?”

“The how was ridiculously easy.” His Trojan had put digital welcome mats in front of millions of network doors. “I hacked the Journal to find who owned it. After uploading my article to that corporation’s computers, I inserted it with tracks seemingly having trickled down the money trail.”

“Clever, but my other question was why.”

“I’m establishing credentials as a jihad sympathetic journalist.”

“The anti-American sounding rhetoric,” the girl noted, “is doubtlessly a red herring for a militant Islamic publication.” She shook the page. “But this isn’t exactly what I believe about public order-keeping.

“I’m not precisely sure what I think of law or government anymore—your controversial notions have screwed up what I previously thought I knew.” Tariq took the paper back. “It’s not even just you either. When I saw my life judged, it was much different than I remembered occurrences. It changed my opinions in ways that I haven’t fully sorted out yet.”

“Me too,” she chuckled, “and here I’m even a couple of years older.”

“Have you ever done a child’s maze,” he changed the subject, “where you have to draw a line to connect the entrance with a goal at the exit?”

“Did you help the bomber to find the embassy in the puzzle section?”

“Those are designed to be difficult only in the one direction. Starting at the end and working back is always easier.”

“Is you’re machete is cutting through the Omani jungle from the edge?”

“Twisted vines are an apt depiction of the Sheik’s corporate structure.” He went to take a sip of coffee but found his cup empty.

“I’ll fix you another one.”

That instant crap actually tastes better when she makes it.

[She doesn’t put in four taste-bud-ravaging spoonfuls.]

“There are unexplained cash transfers,” the programmer took a tiny sip: he barely noticed the flavor, “going back to well before 9/11.”

“Where money flows,” Katya observed, “so floats political agendas.”

“I’ve seen enough to confirm my suspicions.” The programmer pushed his chair back to enjoy his coffee. “Tariq Muhammad might wish to gain first-hand experience before writing his definitive exposé.”[/private_Chevron]

…

‘American Law is serfdom—cleverly cloaked in a sham of freedom that allows an unscrupulous few to retain power over the utterly-duped many.’

Bijan hadn’t any contact from the paper’s owner when the second insertion came in, but then he operated with nearly a full autonomy.

“~Mr. Kiani,” Tariq spoke in Farsi, “~I’m pleased that you printed my first article and I trust you will similarly publish the next too.”

“~Are you Tariq Muhammad?”

“~As yourself,” the programmer had studied all he could find out about the editor, “~I am the second generation product of American meddling. My family left Iran in fear of the Shah’s SAVAK secret police.”

“~To what do I owe the honor of this call?” Bijan wondered, but his first guess would be to arrange where the author fees should be sent.

“~I’m planning a dissertation on the front lines of the Islamic Jihad.”

“~Mr. Muhammad,” stuck in the quandary of offering his pre-approval or withholding it, Editor Kiani noted the private line the call had come in on: very few people knew it, “I’m sure we can print whatever you write.”

“~That’s wonderful,” Tariq sprung the trap, “~but that’s not what I’ve called about.” He went on to discuss the details.

Chapter 15 of Loki’s Trojan

Sprite of May and September’s Satyr

[private_Chevron]“We’re safe now,” the rescued girl wasn’t content with just a hug: she kissed him deeply on the lips, “and we’re together at last.”

“Uh-huh.” The passionate kiss had both surprised and befuddled him.[/private_Chevron]

“Get a room,” a younger ruffian had rounded the corner and broke the mood with a rude comment, “or maybe the tart needs a virile stud instead.”

“Hop on back.” The programmer ignored the unwanted intrusion.

“Hey babe,” another street guy chirped in, “you want to get two bangs for the price of none?” He grabbed his crotch. “I got a big one right here.”

“Ditch your dad,” the first boy laughed raucously, “and come with us.”

“I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle like this before.” Lyra slipped the spare helmet over her long hair. Scooters were common in her previous home in Phuket but the comparison to a high performance 750cc Kawasaki twin cylinder Vulcan was as a Shetland pony is to a thoroughbred stallion.

“Going off with an old geezer is lame.” The taunt was accompanied by a guffaw. “Look what you’ll be missing out on.” The one man in his early twenties turned and dropped his pants and shorts to his lower thighs.

“Yah,” the other one chortled and showed a similar full moon, “doesn’t my prime ass meat have your girlie juices gurgling?”

[If you won’t, I will.] Loki took control and swiftly drew the paintball gun. [Take that!] The first round projectile struck a globe of buttocks and it splattered yellow. [It would’ve been a shame,] the trickster god kept the trigger depressed, [not to get some fun with this toy:] a mag of thirty balls peppered the exposed rumps. The hooligans danced to the music of their own shrieks and scrambled to get pants back onto two power painted butts.

On regaining control of his body, Tariq put the gun into its pouch. He squeezed the clutch and stepped the pedal into gear, then rolled the throttle. The tires spun several revolutions and then the rubber grabbed the asphalt.

“Where should we go?” Tariq asked over the wind and engine roar.

With her physical connection with the seat, Lyra’s inner thighs felt the mechanical action of his two quick up shifts as brief hesitations and the pedal clunks were followed by her inertia accelerating. The vibration of the motor was sexually exciting: like riding a gasoline-powered dildo.

“Second star on the left.” She felt him lean briefly to the right and back again to bend the wheels around the hump of a roughly set manhole cover.

“Then straight on until morning.” Tariq finished the quote as it was the directions to Neverland as given by Peter Pan. I feel like a boy who never grew up—nor wants to. A young woman glued to his back seemed to be cycling back the number of his days with each rotation of a tire. At least in my mind she might be, but the mental theater is where that stays.

[You’re kidding yourself.] Loki mentally smirked: that was true in two ways but he meant the second. [In matters of sex, women always choose.]

“How utterly weird am I?” Lyra tickled to the delightful sensations in her flesh pressed solidly against the man in front. A gorgeous boy of near my age held my naked body and I felt nothing.
Currently the motorbike’s transmission was in fourth but her female sex drive had just kicked into passing gear. Almost of their own accord, her hands explored his midriff and her fingers evoked a tightening of his abdominal muscles. Now a man probably twice as old as I am, has me nearly dripping.

“What’s that?” Tariq heard a mutter but over the noise, but with his thoughts tracking the fingers moving on his belly, he didn’t catch the words. He could barely spare any attention to his riding.
[Her proximity evokes images from her video clips.]

Take your nose out of my mind’s gutter.

“Get us a room.” Lyra shouted.

[private_Chevron]“Well, what should—.” The programmer began small talk as the door swung shut but he didn’t finish as a frantic pair of lips locked onto his.

Lyra’s hands sought a way into his clothing as she aggressively walked him backwards to collapse on the bed. He didn’t expect a connection like this but I need it. The woman detected hesitancy in him but she ignored it.

Tariq’s male instincts responded as predictable in the sensual situation. Conversely, his mental functions edged towards panic and trying to predict the future. The girl wants this now but where will we be afterwards?

[You’ll be in a Windsor motel room—the same place as you are now.]

Her current pique could be a one-time reaction to the sudden release of pent up—liberation?

[Shut your stupid brain off and let your body do your thinking for you.]

…

Reclined on his side, Tariq had both his elbow and a pillow under his ear: he could think of nothing worth saying. His eyes were fastened on the woman’s pupils—that were focused on his.

“Thank you.” The girl broke the conversational ice.

“I think I’m the one that should’ve said that.” The Iranian laughed at the absurdity of an incredibly beautiful young female thanking an older man for a bedroom romp. Lauren was—. He began a thought but then decided to speak it instead. “My last lover wasn’t as young as you are but I felt the generation difference between us was vast.”

“The older men I’ve willingly been with have all paid me for it,” Lyra didn’t factor in the men involved in the rapes: they didn’t count, “but this time was for free.” It was for no charge and for the girl who called herself by that name. She took a heavy breath and let it out in a soft sigh.

“You are,” the man rolled his face forward to touch noses: he had meant to before her admission and it didn’t stop him, “or were a hooker?”

“I’ve taken money for sex,” Lyra’s hand moved to his neck and she ran fingertips in the back of his scalp, seeking for nerve bundles to send shocks of ecstasy, “but only when I really wanted to do it anyways.”

“Let’s do something.” He endured her sensual ministrations only until it seemed they were headed towards something else. He sat up sharply.

[Does your battery need more than ten minutes of recovery time?]

“I was just getting warmed up again.” Lyra pouted.

“I didn’t expect to cross over into Canada and I don’t have my gear.” Tariq went on to tell of a Detroit motel room and a leased car there. “The motorcycle was just a day rental to follow in traffic.”

“I didn’t get much sleep last night. Why don’t you go back and pack your stuff. I can nap and then maybe,” she traced a finger over his chest, “we can go to dinner after you get back.” But despite his reservations, I don’t intend to celebrate my freedom day celibately.

…

“America is purported to be a land of liberty.” Lyra noted after the drinks arrived but before the food was served. They were dining in one of the bigger gambling establishments but hadn’t tried their luck. “Yet, I was in captivity during each moment I was there.”

“You’re not the first to come north to Canada seeking freedom.” Tariq mentioned the underground railroad of the black slaves and the draft-dodgers evading compulsory military service in Vietnam. “It’s just as well you were secreted out of the U.S. as the laws are slightly more liberal here. In Detroit, you would’ve needed to be 21 to have a drink with our meal.”

“With disparity in legal drinking age,” the girl tilted her glass then put it to her ironic smile, “I would be less at liberty there to exercise my choice on whether or not to take alcohol.”

“Freedom is a relative term no matter where one resides.”

“I don’t think that should be so,” the previously owned girl pensively swirled wine glass, “but that’s a discussion far too deep for this situation.”

“While you prefer me just as your dumb boy toy.” The programmer found this turn-about hilarious. “I suspect I can mentally keep up.”

“The booming casino business here in Windsor,” Lyra’s eyes strayed around, “is also do to freedom of choice. The puritanical lawmakers in the U.S. haven’t deemed fit to allowed supposedly free folk to gamble there.”

“Those politicians do represent the majority that elected them.” Tariq spouted a socially acceptable response to her observation, but he didn’t feel quite as comfortable in its truth, as he once did.

“Actually,” the Canadian chuckled, “I think you’re right. This is too complex a topic for just now.”

“The banks of slot machines have enticing bells and music.” Lyra couldn’t resist playing her situation interpretation game. “Watch how our fellow diners are affected by the jingle tunes. Their eyes turn askance, and nudged by the sounds of winning, they feel an induced compulsion to gamble, instead of simply enjoying their repast.”

“They are free not to participate.”

“Are they really at liberty to decline?”

“In the 1960’s, an experimental form of subliminal advertising was put in practice. Messages too subtle for the eye to directly catch were sent to the subconscious mind. It was ultimately banned as unconscionable.”

“But as the corporate culture gained greater sway over the politicians, a greater lenience was quietly granted.” Lyra suggested. “Now, subliminal advertising seems to be everywhere.”

“I concur with that.” Tariq snagged a cigarette girl and bought a pack.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t anymore, but the cigarette manufacturers sure do want me to.” He showed her the packaging. “Advertisers found that hiding words like death in smoke or ice graphics was an effective way to promote harmful products.” He pointed to the gruesome health warning. “Now, tobacco companies are allowed to put images in right in bold sight. It targets the subconscious and people just don’t realize that it’s still advertising.”

“The anti-smoking lobbyists pushed for those shocking photos.” Lyra pulled her elbows off the table to allow a waiter to set out her food order.

“So the naive believe but how did an under-funded anti-smoking group win against the well-established influence of the tobacco companies—if those didn’t actually want the legislation?”

“This discussion seems to be headed in the same general direction,” she picked up her fork, but just stirred her food, “as the one I wished to avoid.”

“Let’s try it then.”

“You told me of a spirit you have inside.” She intently gazed as if to find Loki in his eyes. “Did you acquire him when you drowned?”

“Yes.”

“I had a death experience too. It was in the Boxing Day tsunami.”

“Did you bring back anyone with you?”

“I’ve been envious since you told me: someone internal would’ve been awesome while Bob had me in solitary. If possible, I would’ve brought my mom back, but I didn’t found her either alive, dead or in a spirit form.”

“I didn’t pick Loki: he jumped in uninvited like a homeless windshield washer. But, I’m a bit lost here. How does our talking of freedom and subliminal ads lead to afterlife experiences that we’ve both had?

“I’ve never felt so free and happy—as I did when I was briefly dead.”

“As I was paddling away from Bob’s boat in a life ring,” he admitted, “I was genuinely tempted to just let it go and drown again.”

“Subliminal advertising’s death messages are targeting our souls. Those want to die and go home—because here, they are not free enough.”

“That is too deep. Can I go back to being the dumb boy-toy now?”

[Chicken!]

“You can,” she touched a forkful of mashed potato to her lower lip, “if I can be the teenybopper looking for your big daddy-long-legs.”

[Mink!]

“People seated nearby often covertly look this way and jealousy flashes over faces.” They had eaten in silence for a few minutes but Lyra had been surreptitiously observing the restaurant’s other diners. “They all have the freedom to mind their own affairs but choose to consider ours instead.”

“Polite society seems to promote loutish behavior in response to a perceived breach of a societal taboo.”

“I don’t mind and in fact I enjoy it.” The girl described her game of interpreting social situations and gave her impression of this one. “Due to our age disparity, most probably think I’m a courtesan. The men looking at us may be wishing they could rent my services. While the women try to hide their true expression with one of mild disgust, they also feel envious.”

“Because a winsome young female,” Tariq speculated, “has usurped a mate who should belong to a woman of their generation?”

“Would you say our rapt audience is more offended by your being a lecherous chicken hawk, or by my status as a professional escort?” Her eyes turned mirthful, as the mature waitress had arrived just in time to hear Lyra’s seeming admission of being a paid strumpet.

[The serving wench’s nose is wrinkled: as if she just dipped her stork’s beak into a longboat’s bilge bucket.]

“I imagine I get the double dose.” Tariq exercised decorum by waiting until the server left, before continuing. “I’m perceived as an aged punter with a forbidden taste for cherry-flavored tarts.” The programmer took a bite of his juicy rare steak. “Did prostitution bring you to the Russian mob, or did the mafia take you into the sex trade?

“Neither one.” The girl chuckled lustily and decided to play a different game. Under the table, she slipped off her one shoe.

“After losing your mother, I imagine you didn’t have many options.”

“I had some and the ones I made were deliberate.” Lyra began tickling her toes up her date’s pant leg. “My first John was of about your age.”

“Did he teach you anything?”

“I know now that steroids, nicotine, alcohol and Viagra,” Lyra giggled and her toes tugged at the top of his sock, “are not a such good combo.”

“Do tell.”

“He was quite buffed,” she grinned as she relating the tale she hadn’t shared with Dmitri—or anyone else, “but I later saw a bottle of anabolic steroids in his shaving kit, that I suspect assisted his bulking up.”

“Steroids have been linked to impotence and a reduced libido.”

“So has nicotine and the man smoked like a freighter’s funnel.” Under the table, her ploy took a stronger tack with her foot leaving the confined space of the pant leg and climbing to the inside of the programmer’s knee. “It’s odd how people often do things that defeat their own purposes.”

“He was presumably using steroids to make himself more physically attractive—to impress women,” the Iranian guessed, “but his methods were defeating his ability to perform at the optimum—when he got one in bed.”

“While we unsuccessfully tried, he bemoaned over some alcohol.” The girl’s mischievous toes found his inner thigh. “My John stoked his firebox with Viagra and had two more drinks while waiting for it to take effect.”

“Alcohol and nicotine are both depressants.”

“As I found out shortly after the drug kicked in.” Under the table, her foot found its target: she planted her heel to facilitate further wiggling toe-play. “He was yawning by then and so asked me to go on top.”

“Oh, he didn’t fall asleep.” The programmer laughed. “Did he?”

“He snored like an outboard motor but his banner stanchion remained standing firm and proud.” She grinned as her inquisitive foot discovered it had achieved a Viagra effect. “I tied my white g-string panties to his mast like a surrender flag, took the money, and I left.”

“There’s my capitulation marker for the naughty footsy game.” Tariq placed a napkin atop his empty water glass. “If we don’t pay our bill and leave, I’ll soon be ravishing you under the table.”

“The man in Bangkok,” Lyra removed her provocative foot and her face fell a notch as she realized the man from the pool also highlighted how her lack of life experience could be a hindrance, “and I didn’t have common subjects to talk about.” Obviously, a mature male found a young female desirable but sex wasn’t enough.

“After I was finished high school,” Tariq reminisced as they waited on the bill, “I worked for several years while deciding on a career: I stayed in my parent’s house. My younger sister’s friend developed a crush on me.”

“I hope this tale has full body contact—as your spider story didn’t.”

“We were physical—often.” He flirted his eyebrow but omitted details. “In truth, sex was really all we did together. Eventually, she met another guy whom she felt more kinship with and we both moved on. We learned that physicality is only part of what a man and a woman need to share.”

“She was too young to know about what interested you.”

“Her youthful age only really factored into her using sex as a lure and my immaturity had me biting too hard on that hook. As our time spent as a couple passed, we found we liked different things and were we of identical ages, we still wouldn’t be happy together.”

“Neither of you were harmed by the affair,” her face brightened, “but you couldn’t of known unless you tried.”

“We also both gained in our carnal knowledge.” The Iranian noted the music and he laughed at a small coincidence of this moment. “In fact, each time I hear the song that’s playing right now,” it was Night Moves by Bob Seger, “I’m reminded of some wonderful times with her.”

“What song will make you think of me?”

“Probably this one.” The Canadian was again nonplussed by a perfect choice from the canned music: it was a Bob Seger medley and Main Street had come up next. “The lyrics are poignant to your lifesaving dance on the yacht, but the tune’s haunting quality can linger forever in a mind’s ear.”

“I might’ve picked Night Moves to remind me of you,” Lyra pondered, ‘but it’s already taken.” And my Tantra will likely have me as the bedroom skills instructor. “I’ll devote my mind to finding an ideal selection.”

“Shall we leave,” the programmer had paid the bill, “or should we play some games and waste some money?’

“I’ve never been to a casino.” Lyra finished her fourth glass of wine.

“The peanut shaped tables are mostly for blackjack, but there are other card games played there too.” He explained as they strolled. “Roulette is over there,” he pointed, “and Poker is in that compartmented off room.”

“The numerous banks of slot machines seem to be the most popular.”

“The one-armed-bandits aren’t well named anymore as the mechanical handles of early machines have been replaced by buttons or touch screens.”

“Armless robbery is a crime in most States, but it’s legal in Canada.”

“It would be illegal here too,” he wryly noted, “but for the government taking a whopping skim-off in return for legitimacy.”

“Let’s try this game.” She saw one with a sword and fantasy theme.

“I’ll kiss this goodbye now.” The Iranian slid a fifty note into the slot and the credits tallied up accordingly.

“Does Loki talk to you constantly?” Lyra pulled a chair up close to his machine: she had no money of her own but took her turn pushing buttons.

“He’s disappeared altogether once,” Tariq recalled the long hours of total absence when he was working in his Seattle apartment, “but usually he chatters away while trying to engage me in a conversation.

[Lately, the booming reverberations of my words echoing on the walls of your empty skull have been frightening me into silence.]

“When I’m with you,” as doubtlessly intended, Loki’s insult prompted Tariq’s noticing, “I don’t often speak to myself in my mind either.”

“Khik mai mach.” The previous slave chuckled: the condition was one she had also excessively experienced. “It means don’t think too much.”

“It’s comfortable being sufficiently at ease with someone for unguarded openness.” The Canadian recalled how a self-commentary was necessary in his interactions with Lauren and also awkwardly with Tamara.

[HELLO—hello—hello—hello]

“I’ll treat you the same way.” The young woman thought of her father. “This slot machine lured me because I’ve characterized myself as a hobbit in the Lord of the Rings and I envisioned my father as Gandalf.”

“There’s another commonality.” Tariq thought of his escape from the tower, but his didn’t seem to fit the current conversation. “I’ve identified with a Tolkien character too, but you used a past tense on being a hobbit.”

“Now, I’m looking forward through Aragorn’s perspective.”

“I’m intrigued at the masculine figure,” Tariq’s eyes hinted downwards at the decidedly female package below, “but I’m more absorbed in who I am in your personifications. The wizard helped Strider in claiming Middle Earth’s throne but there was also the Elvish Lady Arwen.”

“She was much older than he,” the girl’s eyes focused on the gambling screen, where credits were dwindling, “but timeless until she relinquished her immortality. Then his spring and her autumn merged for a summer.”

[I’m taking my turn at pushing the button.] The wheels spun and came to rest with five dragons in a line. The jingle from the speaker mounted to a crescendo and a hitherto unseen bonus game materialized.

“Let me select.” The young woman squirmed excitedly and touched one of the four treasure chests. A large amount showed and then the other three opened to display what she might’ve taken—one was a nasty goblin.

[Now me.] Through Tariq’s finger, Loki touched a chest—win all. The tally climbed by the total in the other three chests.

Lyra and Loki took the turns for the next three bonus rounds and each avoided the goblins to win big rewards. The screen said call attendant.

“I hate it when he does that to me.” The programmer’s mind returned to the perfect swing at the driving range. His fifty dollars had multiplied by 50 into $2500 but that was an irritant too. “I’m much more comfortable thinking of my mind’s hitchhiker as just my brain’s sickness.”

“What is the song playing now?” While waiting for the payout, the girl ordered more drinks and the canned music regained her attention.

“It’s Bright Side of the Road,” the Iranian signed for, and collected the winnings, but he didn’t feel like any more alcohol, “by Van Morrison.”

“I’ve picked the song that will remind me of you.” She finished her last drink and then bolted his down too. “There’s no sense in wasting it.”

“Come sit closer to me.” In the back seat of a taxi, Lyra felt her liquor.

“I don’t think so.” Tariq recalled her public footsy game and he didn’t want something similar happening in a cab.

“You’re not as dumb,” she slurred, “as I want you to be.”

…

Her eyes opened to slits and through the fuzzy black bars of the heavy mascara on her lashes, Zafira viewed a man’s chest: her head was nestled against it. Abdi’s mind replayed the now consummated dangerous tryst.

‘It’s unseemly for us to be observed together for more than a meal,’ she had cautioned after his hand found hers—Zafira hadn’t drawn back, ‘as we make an unlikely pairing. Your Stryker Group is well known for swaying American politicians—but they staunchly back my opponents.’

‘My companies are well suspected,’ Bernard had warmly squeezed her hand, ‘but that’s a world of difference from well known. Bring a small bag to my jet tonight and we’ll discuss our desires far away from scrutiny.’

Desires. Zafira smiled and her fingers idly combed the sparse tangle of grey hairs between his taunt pectorals. That one spoken word toppled any resolve I could’ve found to refuse him with. She had both a physical desire that was stirred up in the elevator and political yearning that he could sate.

‘I found your Hundred Years War speech interesting,’ aboard his jet, Stryker resumed their conversation, ‘but the Norman Conquest was exactly the reverse with Frenchmen sacking the English countryside. Other than love-struck Joan of Arc’s fanatical quest to reinstall her Dauphin, French commanders in the century long conflict were also financially motivated.’

‘I can’t hope to change human nature,’ Zafira Abdi had retorted, ‘but I would consider it a victory when a people’s government, as opposed to the government’s army, controls happenings on my state’s sensitive borders.’

‘A victory condition for my human nature,’ Bernard had set his hand on her knee, ‘involves my influencing goings-on in your state of sensitivity.’

“Are you hungry for a bite of breakfast?” The Pakistani woman felt her caresses had awakened him. I’m not even sure of where the flight landed.

“Here in Vienna it’s called früstück,” Bernard rolled to face her, “and the English translation is literally an early piece: why don’t we enjoy a big früstück of morning glory and then consider what we might wish to eat.

…

“I can certainly see why Bob saw such slave potential in you.” Tariq was on his back and the girl prone on her belly: she had seemingly kissed his foot but a dry spit told of her having just bitten out his toe’s hangnail.

“You really needed this,” Lyra looked up from his foot manicure, “and I enjoy caring for people I’m close to. You’re wrong though,” she returned her attention to the clippers, “he just wanted one type of personal service.”

“Am I really that different?” Since they were at his face anyways, the programmer grabbed her bare feet and awkwardly massaged them. Days had blended into a blur of bliss. The time had been spent in talking about the events in their lives—interspaced frequently with awesome sex.

“You’re just tickling them.” She pulled her legs away.

[A gift always belongs to the giver.]

You know what’s going on in my mind. The Iranian reverted to his old habit speaking internally. Why don’t you tell me so we both do?

[I’ll only give you a hint—the same is happening in hers too.]

“This isn’t me.” The Iranian-Canadian’s eyes swept the hotel room.

“Then who is it?” She gave a last quick file and blew away the dust.

“I mean this isn’t who I am. Let’s go somewhere I can be myself.”

“Okay.” She had no idea what he was babbling about.

Southwestern Ontario is an area of urban centers, rural acreages, roads orchards, industry and civilization. There are places everywhere though, where nature remains and as he drove, that’s precisely what he looked for.

…

Across the Atlantic, it was early evening and Zafira Abdi admired her reflection in a lobby mirror. Her gown was shimmering blue and trimmed with sterling silver lace. It fit her as if tailor made to her measurements—it was: Bernard’s staff had taken digital dimensions from recent new videos.

After Stryker had left the suite, a team of dressers, make-up artists and stylists had unexpectedly arrived to get her ready for tonight.

“Do you like it?” Bernard materialized behind, as if from nowhere.

“It’s wonderful.” The Pakistani woman’s fingers caressed the silky veil perfectly matching both her style and the chic evening dress. “You look elegant as well.” She nodded approvingly at his pitch-black tuxedo.

“Our carriage awaits.” Stryker’s statement wasn’t a figure of speech: an open landau teamed by dapple-grey horses stood at the hotel’s door.

“We should be more careful than this.” As they traveled to the Vienna opera house, Abdi worried.

“I’m a publically known figure, and married.”

“If there are Paparazzi about, my people will have possession of the film.” Bernard smiled enigmatically: they would be photographed together and his staff was taking them. “The major wire services know better than to publish anything about me that I haven’t approved. As to smaller ones, I can quickly squash anything the press tries to push into the public’s face.”

“You’re confident.” It wasn’t a question. Zafira took assurance from just his demeanor. Bernard’s perfect coifed hair and trimmed beard lends him a regal quality: his looks and personal power call Czar Nicholas to mind—albeit older than the last Romanov was when assassinated.

“Princess Diana rode with me in a landau to this opera house.” Stryker nodded to the driver and after a whip crack, the horse’s hoofs clattered on the cobblestones. “Did the tabloids feature any shocking photos of us?”

The open carriage rounded a corner and was bathed in the evening sun. As a strong gust of wind fluttered her hair and veil: the Pakistani woman hugged his arm and shivered. He can pave the highway to my ambitions.

…

“Now this,” the best place Tariq could find was a wooded gully with a clear stream running through it, “is where I live.” They had hiked a half a kilometer and chanced upon an oxbow with pool of still water.

“In other words,” she chuckled, “you’re homeless. Where’s your tent?”

“I left it in my shopping cart.” He stripped to his undershorts.

“I’ll move here too.” With a grin, she peeled off her jeans.

“It’s a bit shallow for swimming,” the Canadian waded into the pond: at the middle, it was only up to his thighs, “but that’s deep enough to get wet.” He ducked in up to his neck and sat on the squishy bottom.

Lyra splashed out to the middle and dropped on her knees. She slowly turned a circle to take in the setting. The highway noise was a distant hum, and birds and insects could be heard over it. “Why are we here?”

“I’ll tell you that secret after we’ve mucked in that mud hole.” In the old streambed, he had spotted a place where a slight depression was filled with water. “Dance with me?” Tariq trundled into the mud: its depth was up to his ankles. “This is called the grape-stomper’s tango.”

After an hour of dancing, laughing, tramping, stumbling and sometimes falling, the two were filthy. Their play had widened the wallow to the size of a compact car. It was now over the girl’s knees and each step was as if walking on a planet with triple the gravity.

“I’m a swine and this mud is my home sweet home.” The Iranian had fallen over backwards and the muck was over his thighs. “Come sit on my best sofa.” As an invitation, he slapped the mud beside him.

“It also comes with,” she plunked down, then turned with an evil titter and whopped his cheeks with double handfuls, “free mud facials.”

Tariq stretched on his back and smeared dirt ooze onto his chest. The girl snuggled under an arm: they were blanketed in a sun-warmed bed and it was amazingly comfortable.

“I’ve been sorting out my feelings towards you,” Tariq’s voice grew serious, “and being in a natural place helps me to think clearly.”

“Did you arrive at any conclusions?” She slopped a sticky arm over his belly and put her chin on his chest, to watch his lips.

“I chased after Lauren and I tried to be what she wanted from me.”

“From what you’ve told me, she was pursuing you as well.”

“Lauren had hidden motives,” the programmer continued, “but what’s important is what I did wrong—I won’t make the same mistake again. If I try to win you again everyday, then eventually I’m sure I would lose.”

“Unlike her,” Lyra felt his words sting, “I have no secondary agenda.”

“My relationship with my late wife was similar. I even took a job that I didn’t like or want, just to give Brenda the future she wanted.”

“I like you the way you already are.”

“That’s good because the sentiment is reciprocal.” The Canadian gave her a strong hug that squeezed ooze up between them. “I’ll just be who I really am. If you can find what you want in me—then it’s yours to take.”

“If what we’re both seeking isn’t in each other,” Lyra agreed, “then our being together wouldn’t be true to ourselves and we should really split up.”

“That’s a deal we can put into concrete.”

“If we stay put until the mud dries it’ll be almost as cement.”[/private_Chevron]

Lyra left first to rinse off in the deeper pool. She peeled off her panties and bra to wash them. The Iranian delayed a minute. When he emerged, his legs were thickly muck coated but his upper body had only a patchy second skin of dried slime: the sides of his face still had the mud-clod goat horns that she had slapped there.

“I’m the sprite of May,” the naked nymph stood up in the water and pointed at his seemingly fur-covered legs, “and you’re September’s satyr.”

Chapter 14 of Loki’s Trojan

Katz up a Blind Alley

‘~You’ll head to Windsor, Ontario and meet my cousin Boris.’ As the commercial jet descended into Toronto, Anaconda recalled the mafia chief’s words. ‘Leonid and two others will collect the girl from Seattle.’

‘~I thought that I was to deal with her.’ The subaltern had managed to resist his desire to immediately maim the man withholding of the object of his intended vengeance. ‘~I should be tasked with flying to Seattle.’

‘~My valuable friend,’ Sergey had placed a consoling arm around the Anaconda’s shoulder, ‘~a trained monkey could make the actual exchange and Leonid will suffice for that duty. I need you for an important function but you will still be responsible for her final disposition.’

‘~What do you want to occur?’ Though the lieutenant had initially seethed at being excluded, the prospect of his crossing paths with her in Canada instead of the U.S. sent his anticipation soaring.

‘This whole scenario has developed out well.’ Sergey had chuckled and switched over to English. ‘On my other trip to America, I stopped in to see my cousin who owns a tidy bar in the Canadian city. At the time, Boris wanted to buy females but I had none to sell and his offered dowry was far too low. A day ago, my doltish cousin contacted me again seeking a contact with the thieves-in-law in his vicinity. Boris has stumbled onto a diversion where he needs mafia muscle.’

‘This is a very long distance to travel simply for strong-arming.’ I see that his dictionary is open to the ‘d’ pages. The Anaconda suspected that diversion meant situation, but using the word dowry for a sex slave’s price was humorously incongruous: he wondered next at the doltish derogative in the description of Sergey’s kin. If that’s a misuse of English then I don’t really know what he is trying to imply—so I’ll take him at his own word.

‘I wouldn’t have disbanded you except with desultory timing the jobs have coincided. Boris has offered to take the non-satisfactory girl and I certainly don’t wish to have defamed merchandise returned.’

‘I’ll complete your cousin’s assignment and accept her bride’s price.’

‘Leonid will arrive with the merchandise.’

‘As always,” the Anaconda grinned: unlike Sergey’s dingy black smile, the mob lieutenant’s teeth were dazzling white, ‘I’ll make the appropriate decisions of what serves the best interests.’

…

[private_Chevron]The CEO’s hangdog smile was gleaming white too, but on emerging to see his employee in a plush chair, his face turned whip-welt red.

“Bob Wall,” Collin looked up and offered a hand to the female seated on the sofa, “meet Oksana Gagarin.”

“Uh,” Wall stammered, “I’ve met her once before—on my yacht.”

“Speaking of a boat,” this latest episode had finally pushed Collin to a decision he should’ve made before, “I think it’s time for me to jump ship.”

“I need you here.” Wall began, but then he glanced at the girl. “Maybe we should continue this discussion in private.”

“I’ve been with her for a few hours now,” Hersker gave no impression of moving from his comfortable spot, “and I’m entirely confident that she doesn’t understand any English.”

“We can talk here.” Bob cautiously took a seat on the other end of the Chesterfield. “Would another healthy pay raise change your mind?”

“My life isn’t all about money.” The asshole felt as if Wall had called him a whore. “You stole intellectual property right in front of me. To my direct knowledge, you effectively had a human murdered by organized crime and you’re participating in white slavery for the purpose of sexual gratification. Now, I’ve witnessed your illegal drug use.”

“I can explain.” Bob’s voice was trembling: he had come to rely on Collin, but the man’s defection would also make him a worrisome source of public humiliation or as a prosecution witness. Oddly, Wall’s worst fear was the exposure of the one thing the asshole hadn’t listed: that was the naked and bound position he had been obviously been found in.

“Then please do so.” Hersker put his feet up on the coffee table.

“You know why I hired you,” the CEO took a deep breath: he would need his finest suck-holing techniques to change the man’s mind, “but do you know the reason why I sought you out?”

“You wanted an acquisition specialist.” Collin might have previously wondered about the motivation, but then Wall had offered his quote to the effect of ‘rich people buying reality’. He presumed that put a handle on the second part answer. “But the events I’ve so far been a party to, have caused me to self-evaluate my continued involvement.”

“As a successful man grows older,” the CEO followed his employee’s lead in making himself more comfortable for an extended talk, “he begins to wonder if he’s achieved his aspirations. I found mine lacking, so I took you on to help me reach for my new goals.”

“If theft, murder and sex crimes are the only items on your new agenda then I wish I had left earlier.”

“I didn’t pre-plan those,” Bob cringed at the blunt accusations striking him like from the flat of a paddle: he had already rationalized and forgiven himself for those actions, “and they weren’t all my fault.”

“How can you see it that way?” Hersker’s voice wasn’t accusing: he really did want to know.

“I am successful in business and I’m wealthy. You of all people have a solid knowledge of exactly how much money I have. When I was young,” Bob recalled a stage of his life before he acquired his empire, “I though the money would mean more. I expected power to automatically come with it and I envisioned sexual conquests to match. It didn’t turn out that way.”

“Reality seldom lives up to a fantasy’s expectation.”

“Money seemed to become the ends as well as the means.”

“Eventually,” Collin surmised, “you didn’t get the same thrill from it.”

“True.” Wall experienced a concern that he may even be speaking too candidly, but it seemed that it might be working. “I decided to buy some companies possessing greater political clout. That’s where you came in.”

“I know that and we would’ve gotten to it.”

“I made a mistake in initially contacting the Russian mob but it was a well-intentioned error. I wanted to reduce computer crime at the source.”

Collin Hersker didn’t comment. He shifted his eyes from his boss to the girl, who was twiddling her fingers and oblivious to the conversation. I would know if she understood: her face couldn’t help but to clearly show.

“Unfortunately, my limited association with the Russians unavoidably set the stage for what happened later.” Bob continued. “I’m a high profile person and in this kiss-and-tattle culture, I can’t just pick up prostitutes or anonymous mistresses. Involvement with the mafia granted me a possible way to satisfy my adolescent dreams: maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

“I understand and could forgive you for that.” In fact, Collin Hersker could fully appreciate the allure. For one thing, the young executive’s own financial successes had already made him leery of women, who may just be pursuing him for his money. Then again, this one particular Russian junky exudes a natural feminine charm to seriously tug at my interest.

“Everything came together at once and the events seemed to move themselves.” Bob espoused the rationalization that had worked on his own psyche. “I intended to negotiate with the Canadian, but in delivering the first girl, the organized goons were already handy to exert extra pressure at my bargaining table. The situation spiraled downward when those lawyers unexpectedly provided me with the keystroke sequence, as an additional hammer to throw down. I used it very badly. I didn’t really intend to kill him but as seen in retrospect, I left the developer no other viable choice but to jump. I have to blame myself—even though he drowned on his own.”

“Your dealings with the Russian mob has left you vulnerable to them.”

“No they haven’t.” Bob hadn’t specifically thought out this aspect so had to wing-it. “I have all the physical evidence under my direct control. Furthermore, the mob boss still wants something I haven’t given him yet.” Bob had intended letting Sergey have the search engine result he wanted, but he rescinded that idea in favor of a lesser concession. “I can effectively block his any attempt to squeeze me.”

Collin’s eyes strayed again to where Oksana had her legs curled under her butt. When she noticed he was looking, the girl rolled her eyes around, just to be goofy and she tittered.

“Stay on and let’s finish what we set out to do.” Bob hadn’t noticed the girl’s antics, and he incorrectly surmised his underling’s slight smile was Collin’s buying the shovelful-of-bullshit. “I’ll give you a percentage stake in the corporations we acquire.”

“Alright.” The asshole relented. He didn’t sway me—she did.

…

“There are plenty of bars and casinos here in Windsor.” The Anaconda arrived in the downtown core. “This might just be a fitting place to set up my own independent operation. Bucketfuls of vice money must be drawn up from the deep well of moral turpitude in the U.S. of A.”

This city is technically in Canada but it’s closer to the American city of Detroit with only a river separating the two. Oddly, Windsor, Canada is south of Detroit, though it exists in the nation north of the United States.

“Alley Katz.” He found the stripper bar he was seeking. “It’s got nice visibility, but not much appeal.” The Anaconda parked his rental on the street. “It’s grungy now but could be a fixer-upper.”

The ex-Spetsnaz mafia enforcer entered the bar. These bouncers are overweight and soft. His eyes first surveyed the shabby interior but then concentrated on sizing up the arrayed forces. Still, they were all armed and as they watched him, they postured toughness. Why would the Obshina’s cousin require extra forces? Even if inferior, these seemed like enough.

“Show me to Boris Gagarin.” Anaconda bypassed one guard to speak with an older staff member who was shaped like a snowman. The man’s baldhead had bushy arched eyebrows that could be black winter moss and his nose was as a purple-red bulbous radish. Once upon a long time ago, he had a body builder’s physique but his bulky muscles had turned to flab.

“Who’s asking?” The bar manager blustered with his meaty arms bent to place his hands on the thickest bulge of his corpulent body—presumably those were his hips by the general location between head and feet.

“I didn’t ask you anything.” The mafia lieutenant leaned threateningly over the bar and his eyes narrowed. “I said I am here looking for Sergey Yanderiev’s cousin. Are you going get him for me, or must we discuss it?”

A snowball torso under the one comprising the head melted somewhat, or perhaps it deflated as the manager meekly acquiesced: he trundled away.

Whether armed or not, I could doubtlessly take every strong arm here either one at a time or all together. Anaconda glared after the scurrying bar underling. If these men give an accurate representation, I could easily establish myself as the supreme local underworld force.

“The Obshina sent you?” Boris Gagarin emerged from his back room.

“Brilliantly deduced.” The Russian scowled at Sergey’s cousin and felt loathing. The Yanderiev family shares a similarly repugnant appearance. They were reminiscent of the pigs kept by swineherd progenitors. Was a successful crossbreeding with livestock in the familial heritage? A donkey mated with a horse produces a mule and a sow impregnated by a human male with a penchant for bestiality, spawns a Yanderiev.

“~How is my dearest Sergey?” Boris switched languages and plastered on a grey-toothed chain-smoker’s smile to lighten the vibes.

“~You met with him in person less than a month ago and his state of health is unchanged: I’m not here for idle chitchat.” The enforcer allowed his host to scamper ahead to a rectangular table with a terrycloth cover. It was cordoned off from the other seating area and afforded a semblance of privacy—even were the bar to be full. “~Fill me in on the assignment.”

“~During Sergey’s visit,” Boris glanced around at his meager selection: they were of poor quality, “~I asked him about getting replacement girls.”

“~The Obshina had none to spare.” Anaconda followed the man’s eye sweep with his own cold inspection. I could cull these mongrel bitches. I would cheerfully perform that duty. “~Now, there is an available one.”

“It never rains, but it pours.” The owner gave a chortle that ended with a cough: he cured his hack by lighting up another cigarette.

“~I’m not interested in discussing precipitation either.” The Anaconda remembered where he had seen this man before: his picture had been on his late wife’s mantel. “~I’m sure you have the hard currency?”

“~The money isn’t the problem: at the moment I’ve more than enough cash.” Boris quailed under the mafia man’s now harsher stare. He felt as if someone was urinating on his future grave. Could he be ready for that internment by the time the piss flow waned to a drip?

“~Then what is the difficulty?”

“~An ambitious young pimp has procured a shipment of model class whores. I’ve already seen the product and they are top shelf.” Boris felt a wetness of saliva on his lower lip from just the thought of these girls. The drooling man took a long deep draught on his smoke to obscure the minor physiological gaffe: his pudgy thumb daubed away the spittle.

“~Are you quite certain they weren’t just hired models?”

“~I’m completely assured.” Boris lied: why hadn’t he thought of that possibility? “~I’ll take delivery of the six girls tomorrow but the interloper is insinuating himself where he doesn’t belong.”

“~How many men will he have with him?”

“~Uh, probably just himself.” Boris felt abashed in his call for extra firepower, when he already held overwhelming numerical superiority. His original motivation was to gain a good rapport with the nearby mafia but Sergey had circumvented it by sending his man instead. “~His competition with my cousin and his compatriots must be halted after the exchange.”

“~After the double cross.” Anaconda offered a more accurate portrayal and swung his attention over to leisurely inspect the dimly lit interior. This should be a prime time for business and yet customer seats aren’t even one tenth filled. The exceedingly low quality of his female wares doubtlessly accounted for the thin trade. With the new beauties and the girl delivered from Seattle, Boris would earn a tenfold return. By eliminating the young supplier, he avoided having to pay for a half-dozen girls. This presents a near perfect opportunity for me. “~Give me your gun and holster.”

“~I’ll have my manager get you one.” Boris offered offhandedly. The possibility of a scam with six hired models had taken his mind. It couldn’t be a sting! The young pimp had only himself and no guards. Still, Boris was now retrospectively glad he had some extra mafia men, even if they also presented a further threat.

“~I want your weapon right now.” The enforcer’s eyes had returned to lock onto Boris. I don’t require a firearm to kill him where he sits but his giving in to my demand will show him who is in charge. “~You shouldn’t need one tomorrow or you can get another if you feel undressed without.”

“~I suppose.” Stuck for a better answer and leery of trying one, the bar owner began unbuckling holster straps. “~Do you have a car or should my driver take you to your hotel?”

“~I’ll be staying right here.” The Anaconda took the proffered weapon. I need familiarity with my domain. “~Comforts promote weakness.”

“~Uh,” Boris stammered, “~it’s against the fire code to stay overnight.”

“~I have a diplomatic immunity from ordinances.” Anaconda patted the holster as he strapped it on. I tire of talking with this walking corpse. “~Send me vodka and a jug of fruit juice.” He dismissed Sergey’s cousin by treating him as a waiter with a drink order.

“~This place is ideal for me.” The enforcer poured a drink of vodka. “Doltish,” to use Sergey’s doubtlessly misapplied word, “Boris could die alongside the pimp he intends to rip off.” Lifting the shot, the Anaconda offered a grim salute to the bear munching on the snowman’s cauliflower ear. I was just stripped of my manhood: a soft life here seems to rob men of testosterone. “~Who here in Windsor has the gonads to oppose me?”[/private_Chevron]

In Russian style, Victor the Anaconda drained a glass of orange juice to chase the liquor. The outgoing used up dancers would each satisfy him in their turns. Six fresh whores will grow my booming business. That special girl coming from Seattle would be the first to die slowly in this very room.

“~The extra money Boris bragged about will also serve well.” With it, Anaconda could travel to Kiev to settle affairs. “~I enjoyed Max’s death but I can improve on it.” Sergey keeps muriatic acid in his garden shed. It was for pool maintenance but he envisioned a more auspicious purpose.

“~After finishing Sergey, I’ll have an international organization.” He went to unload his bladder full of vodka and juice. The upright porcelain urinal offered the unmanned male a rare chance to pee standing up. The act was both a treat and a source of anger at why he usually couldn’t.

The few lounge patrons departed. The women who didn’t leave with a client were tasked with a quick janitorial service before they and the staff left. Boris and the manager departed last, with each their chosen females. Though reclined on a thinly padded bench seat and with the solid lump of a revolver under him, the Anaconda slept contentedly.

…

[private_Chevron]In the Detroit mid-morning, Tariq was also reposed on a bench seat, but his was atop a motorcycle and he was at a vantage alongside of a hangar, with a pair of binoculars. He also had a weapon poking into his ribs but a paintball gun was all he had been able to procure.

“Americans have a constitutional amendment to allow people to own firearms,” he adjusted the gun and it’s compressed gas bottle in the satchel strapped to his bike’s fuel tank, then tried to get comfortable, “but a decent guy can’t get a lethal gun when he actually needs one.”

[Freya’s winged longboat should be here any moment now.]

The Iranian consulted his cheap wristwatch to confirm Loki’s internal timekeeping. His covert access in Wall’s corporate computer had supplied the jet’s identification letters and the estimated time of arrival. He scanned the runway’s approach and could now see a plane: it was difficult to spot because of the low backdrop of portentous dark clouds. Tariq watched the plane land and taxi towards the hangar, where a truck waited.

“Going from the luxury of a jet’s cabin to a delivery van’s box is quite the extreme.” The front fuselage door opened downwards and transformed into a short flight of stairs. The programmer lifted his gaze slightly to view the sky: the boiling black billows were now much closer.

[One, two, three little armed foes.] Loki sang his count to the tune of a nursery rhyme.

“So scrubs plan ‘A’ of snatching her right here.” Tariq surmised the waiting driver was just a hired chauffeur. He would’ve been quite easy to overpower or frighten with a paintball gun: the gas hose was stashed in his windbreaker for the weapon to seem as real.

The programmer swung his gaze back to the aircraft just as the young woman showed. Lyra Droski took one step down and then a heavy gust of wind took her skirt up and turned her hair into a fluttering corona.

“The girl is like a brunette Marilyn Monroe.” The view faded as fast as the passing air pressure front that briefly lifted her skirt: it had also fogged Tariq’s binocular lenses. Was it her steamy look or a temperature change?

It was already starting to lightly rain as the female prisoner was hauled to the waiting truck. After closing the sliding rear door, the truck driver hopped into the cab and drove out onto the street.
Wanting to have no risk of his loosing the quarry in traffic, Tariq had opted for using a motorbike instead of a car. It was big enough to take two people and a street bike is completely maneuverable. Unfortunately, a day of wet weather didn’t make for the optimum riding conditions.

“That’s why they didn’t take a limo.” After leaving the Detroit Metro Airport, the tailed vehicle headed straight for the Canadian border crossing. “The customs agents won’t look in the back as long as a duty is paid.”

[Corruption is only considered a crime—if the dirty money doesn’t go into the ruling regime’s grimy fingers.]

Tariq pulled into the front of another lane and he passed through the border formalities easily. The customs agent didn’t ask to look in his bag. Unobtrusively and shivering, he waited as if a cop behind a billboard.

“There are more armed border guards,” the programmer considered a plan ‘B’, “than there are mobsters with guns. Should I alert them?”

[Will your forged documents survive the intense scrutiny that getting her back from immigration custody would take?]

“She might be better off in a holding cell than with the mafia.” Tariq removed his helmet and went to step off his bike, but then he reconsidered. “No, I can’t consign her to a government now, for the same reasons that we didn’t digitally contact them while she was held in Seattle.”

[Bob Wall has the money to buy officials, or at least to rent them.]

The body job truck also went through the border inspection easily. It continued into the light early-afternoon Windsor traffic. After a few more minutes, the truck stopped at the curb, in front of a nightclub named Alley Katz. A man, presumably a lookout, assisted the driver in opening the rear door and the occupants clambered out. The girl and her three male escorts had disappeared inside before the truck drove away.

“It’s too early in the day for a strip bar to be open.” The Iranian rode his 750cc Kawasaki slowly passed and then wheeled around at the end of the block. I saw some trash barrels in a shelter between two buildings: it seemed an ideal place for observation.

A coffee franchise was on the corner and he cycled to the drive-though window. “Do you have extreme-super-duper-mega-gargantuan size cups?” The ride had been chilly through a drizzling rain. After settling for just an extra-large, he cruised to his sentry post and checked his fake weapon: the gas was full and the magazine loaded with balls.

“If Lyra steps out without too many thugs,” Tariq spoke quietly to the cardboard coffee cup as he warmed his hands on it, “I can ride up onto the sidewalk and scoop her.” He took a sip and his mind played out a Rambo style vignette of his plan—with goons laughing at the yellow paint spots on their shirts, while firing real bullets at motorcycle rider.

“If she is intended to be a dancer or a whore, I can rent her services and disappear with her.” He would prefer not leaving her in there for that long. “If no other chance appears, I’ll be the first customer when the bar opens.”

Please God let Lyra safely get through whatever happens!

[Aren’t you supposed to be facing Mecca and saying Allah?]

“I don’t know why I said anything. I don’t believe prayers work.”

[They are always answered but often not as the beseecher anticipated.]

…

Like a Broadway performance, the cast was now assembled. Boris and his bodyguards had been the first to arrive. Soon afterwards, Leonid and his charge drove in from Detroit. As a director would, Anaconda ushered all into the bar and immediately reestablished his supreme authority.

“~Strip your clothes off!” The python-less snake man wrenched the female from Leonid’s grasp and roughly propelled her towards the stage. Almost stumbling, Lyra managed to hold her feet: she took a halting step.

“~You heard him.” Boris tried insinuating his exalted position with a grab of her shirt: he prepared to rip it from her.

“~Stop that!” The Anaconda slammed fingers on the owner’s forearm, like a spring-loaded leg trap on a grizzly’s shin. “You know shit-all about maximum wounding.” He switched to English so the girl couldn’t benefit from the knowledge. “It’s milder for a woman to accept degradation if it is beyond her control—as when her clothing is torn away. Denuding herself causes the greater psychological damage. For males, it’s the reverse.”

“~Strip!” Boris yelled to salvage some of his slighted dignity.

A secret fluency in English has served again. Knowing why, removed the ego crushing edge from the compelled actions, but Lyra’s hopes were all bet dashed anyway. Why did it have to be the Anaconda here? She was now certainly dead and so would Tariq be if he came in to save her—there was no escaping it. The girl undressed and then trudged to the stage.

“~The young whore master will be arriving momentarily.” Anaconda swiveled to take an inventory of his strength in guns: he would deal further with the girl later. My squad totals four and I can see that they each still have their weapons. Boris Gagarin had himself and his four others.

“~He’ll be unarmed.” The bar owner intoned.

“~Are you sure?” The enforcer looked at his host in puzzlement mixed with disgust: what kind of a coward was he? If the young man shows up without protection against nine gun-toting opponents then he’s either too stupid to live—or brave enough for me to keep him alive.

“~I can frisk him to make certain.” Boris continued in his self-assured voice and didn’t realize how badly he had diminished himself.

“~I expect him to be bolting for the exit.” The Anaconda predicted.

“~He’ll panic on realizing you are mafia.” The owner saw the yawning rent in his plan. “~You and your troops should be in reserve until needed.”

“~I’ll stay.” The Anaconda motioned his squad into concealment. This is even better: my men don’t need to know I was the one who shot first.

“~The visitor is here.” A bouncer relayed the alert from the sentry.

Boris took a spot on the bench seat and he placed his briefcase of cash on the floor between his feet, but he didn’t let go of it: his knuckles grew white from his clench on the handle. Fleshy the abomination snowman bar manager sat on one side, while Anaconda settled on the other.

As still as in the seconds before the curtain goes up, they all waited.

…

Listening to the rain’s percussion solo on a tin roof above, the Iranian waited. After only a few moments, an SUV pulled up and parked: the sole occupant was a youthful male. He took several articles from his passenger seat and then spoke a word to the sentry: both entered the bar.

“There are at least five men in there now.” The programmer surmised.

[Hagar the Horrible couldn’t snatch booty from that many.]

“He is a Viking alright,” Tariq noted, “but only in a comic strip.”

[Drawn from actual history.]

“Clever,” The anxious man chuckled as drawn fit both illustrated with a pencil and pulled from the past to the present, “but I’m not sure if the cartoonist is even Scandinavian.”

He scanned the deserted street. The lookout isn’t around anymore, so I can take a closer snoop. The programmer drove onto the street but then climbed the opposite curb, to motor slowly along the sidewalk. It’s locked tight. He paused to check the door handle and noted that pulled outwards.

“If this wasn’t North America,” he recalled fire department knowledge, “where fire codes require business doors to open on a push from within: I might’ve been able to smash it down with my motorcycle and then roar in to collect her.” Well, maybe James Bond could’ve done it like that.

[Canute should’ve waited for the battle of Stamford Bridge until after Harold’s defense at Hastings. William the Conqueror would’ve been Bill the Defeated and Danes instead of Normans would’ve taken Britain.]

“History, both ancient and recent is chocker-block full of events that could’ve gone differently.”

The Iranian-Canadian had one too. “I really should’ve told the border guards I saw illegal aliens in that truck’s box.”

Where did that stupid quip about Canute come from?

[If you can non-productively engage in inane speculations, so can I.]

“Point taken.” Tariq scooted back to his hunter’s blind to watch for a realistic opportunity to present.

…

“~I told you he would be alone.” Boris hissed.

He’s a handsome and well-dressed young man. Victor the Anaconda could easily see why girls would follow him like a pied piper to their later regrets. I was like he is before two women stole my perfection from me. Meeting the lad’s eyes, the mobster felt a rush of odium for the newcomer. His eyes and hers are identical down to that unique shade of blue. Victor averted his gaze to view the nude girl on the ramshackle stage. She makes it seem as ritzy as the Vienna Opera house: this woman is one truly worth my killing her. His peripheral vision noted the young pimp had also turned his face to the female virtuoso in skin.

“~Tariq, please don’t come in here now!’ Lyra hummed words as she danced. This situation was worse than any one man could handle—or was it? This one young man was here all by himself.
Who was this good-looking boy who appeared to be about the same age as she was. As he swiveled and beheld her dancing, the girl found his eyes and she felt an unusual sensation that was also oddly familiar. He’s in opposition to my captors—and I’m not alone. That feeling was akin to a sense of comfort she had experienced throughout her life, to succor times of loneliness—as in Phuket. He is outnumbered, but not grossly out of his league’s depth. How do I know that? Was it readable in body language?

His cropped hair was the same rich polished oak color as hers but it seemed lighter as his scalp was peeking between the hairs. Despite facing six armed men, he has a confident grace. She was compelled to observe and set her body on automatic pilot to writhe and sway to the music.

“Good afternoon Comrade.” Boris jerked the boy’s attention from the performance. The bar owner wasn’t watching the female now and neither were the other men seated with him nor the bouncer guards. Two armed thugs were already standing at the ready. A third moved into position back from a lone chair that was placed for the pimp like a hot seat. “Since I do now have a very large amount of cash here with me I’m sure that like your blindfolds, you’ll allow me my precautions. Search him for weapons.”

Holding a book in one hand and an electronic item in the other, the boy spread his arms to allow the goons to frisk him. The deadly Anaconda scrutinized so intensely, it seemed to peel a skin layer to see the red meat.

“What are you holding?” Boris panned his eyes to the gear.

“I have a money counter because I don’t plan to sit here for three hours while I count by hand.” The young whoremaster shook the album to bring attention to it. “In this book I have a very special offer for you.”

“I have the money right here.” Boris took the case from his feet and set it on the table. “I don’t want photos now, where are the women?”

“They’re in a vehicle a short distance away.” The pimp’s chin gestured over a shoulder. “When I’ve ensured the money is there, I’ll make a call.”

“Then put down your machine and get busy.” Boris opened the case and then with a flourish, he spun it a half turn.

“First, I have a special treat for you.” The boy tapped a fingertip on the book. “On my last trip to Mother Russia, I obtained your girls. I also found a special sweetheart who I’ll sell for no less than $150,000. She’s cute and has the potential to be even more beautiful when she matures. She is a virgin—I knew she would be worth more to me if not despoiled.”

The Mafia man’s peripheral vision showed that the word ‘virgin’ had sparked a special interest for Boris. Perhaps, he hasn’t had a pristine girl since deflowering his stepdaughter. The bar owner and his manager’s full attentions snapped onto the folio but Anaconda’s eyes didn’t even twitch. Any man with half a brain would be squirming but this one is still cocky.

“Perhaps you would like to look at her pictures to help you pass time, while I count? We can talk more about her after.” The pimp smiled at the lecherous intensity with which Boris grabbed at the photo book. The bar manager’s oily face held a similar leer as he slid in closer for a better view.

The strangely calm youth picked up the first stack of bills while Boris cracked the album open to page one. Glancing down at the pictures only for an instant, Victor saw a very young and in fact an underage teen doing a little girl’s version of sexy. As the men flipped to a next leaf, Anaconda saw the boy prepare to take the sheaf of bills out of the wrapper. Boris turned another sheet as the pimp pulled the notes from the wrapper. You idiot! Anaconda felt like nudging him to pay attention to potential threats. He is as his boorish cousin: both let a little head think for the brain.

The young man set the stack of bills into the counting tray and a look of bliss passed over his face. I’m reminded of how I feel when I’m about to kill. Hairs on Victor’s neck bristled. I have an urge to pull out my gun. As the Anaconda reached, Boris became animated in trying to free a sticky page. The fumbling buffoon has wedged himself against my elbow.

The bar manager volunteered nicotine-stained fingers in eagerness to assist Boris in freeing the bound sheets and pushed the heavy dullard even further. With his arm hindered, the Anaconda watched as the pimp flicked a thumbscrew on the counter: the face panel of the non-functional machine dropped to allow access to a .22 caliber Ruger wedged in place of internal mechanisms.

Finally, Victor managed to grasp his gun’s handle. It’s now up to the quicker gunfighter’s draw.
In one movement and in unison with the younger foe, the Anaconda extracted the revolver. He swung his aim over to the boy’s face but was fractionally too late. Seeing the muzzle of the kid’s gun infinitesimally as it cleared the money counter, Victor Rasputin witnessed a small puff of gun-smoke even before the muffled report hit his eardrum. So intent on the instant of impending doom, the Anaconda could almost see the bullet’s nose grow larger to nearly filling his vision. I’m undone by blunderings of Sergey’s incompetent cousin.

In a split-infinity that followed Victor Rasputin, the Anaconda grasped one aspect where he had failed all of his life. I should have known from the beginning that attributes I held so precious weren’t given for me to use for only my own pleasure. He would have a long time, in fact an eternity, to fully ponder all his other errors.

On stage, Lyra’s feet almost floated off the lacquered floorboards with the weight of dread that lifted when the Anaconda’s soul departed. That amazing boy still faces nearly insurmountable odds. It seemed he knew his trade well but he was not aware of Leonid and the two Kiev goons lurking out of sight. As a wild weasel fighter jet, the young woman veered her sleek body to the SAM emplacement. In this instance SAM was Semi-Aware Mob instead of Surface to Air Missile. I’ll distract these three.

The cloistered thugs diverted their radar from the vodka to a full frontal nudity as Lyra gyrated to the rhythm of the massacre.

Continuing his momentum, the boy swiveled in his chair. With quick but deadly accurate shots, he put a single bullet into the point between the eyebrows of each of the bouncers. At the sound of the first shot Boris and his manager snapped attentions from their struggles with the intentionally glued photo book. It took an instant too long for them to register the action unfolding and both were still fumbling for guns when the assailant pivoted back: he hadn’t lingered to watch the last goons performing carpet plunges.

The dancing girl spun to present a rearview to her rapt audience and her face turned to the killing spree. Time seemed to slow and as she watched him fire two deliberate shots into the bar manager’s head, she could almost see the flying bullets. Look over here! Lyra tried a mental scream.

Wrenching her eyes away from the action in the main bar, the dancer focused on the leering face of the last living member of the elite squad. Max, Vlad, Anaconda, and Leonid had killed Dmitri and then all but the leader had participated in the night of her rapes. Reveling in the thought of what would soon to happen to him, Lyra kicked up her show’s eroticism.

Boris stopped struggling for his gun: it was too late. Why hadn’t mafia men come to aid? The young pimp’s pistol was muted with a silencer but they surely should’ve heard something. Sergey’s cousin looked furtively towards the compartmented off area.

Catching the owner’s eyes flicker askance, the gunman realized there were more worries. After shooting the owner once, he dropped off his chair into a roll. From a prone position, he peered at the stage. The girl’s dance was alerting him to the hidden danger as her exotic movements all but pointed him to his next peril. Leaping to his feet, he snatched a spare clip from the open money counter and while running he exchanged the semi-empty magazine for the fresh full one.

The young assassin leaped onto the stage beside the now ecstatic girl. Pirouetting as he jumped, as a skater doing a toe loop, his gun was brought level in front and aimed into the screened off area. Leonid and his cohorts had believed this female was to die for—and now they were utterly correct.

“Thank you.” Lyra breathed as he delivered each dead man a coup de grâce round. Finally having now stopped her dance, she threw her arms around her rescuer and hugged him as tightly as a size too small t-shirt. She kissed his cheek and burrowed her face into his neck then whispered again with more voice. “Oh, thank you!”

Looking up after only a scant moment, she beheld his eyes with her piercing blue ones. He is tall and well put together. My stripped body is plastered against his like stucco on a wall, yet I feel no sexual attraction. Was that an effect of all of the pressure she’d been under? “Who are you?”

“No one.” He lowered his gun. “Who are you?”

“I am,” The young woman paused. What should she answer? All her names were lies but having saved her, he merited the truth. Lyra is lira and that’s only money. Now I’m liberated and Tariq is waiting for me. “Free.” She returned his lack of information with none of her own and a coy smile. She released her grip on his shoulders and stepped back a pace.

“What’ll you do now?” The mysterious man asked as he collected his money counter and photo album.

“I’ll leave.” I’m a witness to his killings but I know he won’t harm me. “Before the police arrive I’ll be gone.”

“Take this then.” He handed over a loose wad of bills. “It’s taxi fare.”

“Thank you.” The girl disinterestedly took the proffered cash. Her eyes were more concerned with the dead mafia lieutenant. The Anaconda is dead and I didn’t have to do it. Dmitri, Oksana’s Mother, my Mom and innumerable others are vindicated. The girl couldn’t resist another stray thought. He was attractive still and doubtlessly was when younger too. What a waste that his mind was as repulsive as his physique was gorgeous. She tore her eyes away and took a satisfied breath. “I’ll go and collect my things. I suspect you’ll be gone when I get back.”

…

Apprehensive as rookie firefighter at the scene of his first blaze, Tariq watched from his nook beside the trash barrels, as the young man stepped casually from the bar and returned to his SUV. The vehicle drove around the corner then stopped at a concealed distance. Should he go into the bar? The Canadian kicked his starter and prepared to roar into the flames.

[Hold your hoses!]

Carrying her small valise, the now liberated Russian sex slave emerged seemingly unscathed and she looked in both directions.

“Who is he?” The girl saw her young benefactor was in his SUV at the end of the block: he was watching her. I’ll nonchalantly walk away.

After strolling a few paces, the girl looked back over her shoulder to see the vehicle departing. To her right and across the street, the Arabic man she had saved at the yacht was wheeling towards her.

[She would look incredible in a metal breastplate and a Viking helm.]

Her beauty would also be matchless though, if attired in anything from her skin to a black abaya complete with a burkha. The young woman was waiting with a Mona Lisa smile. With his attention exclusively on her, his front tire slipped on a wet steel manhole cover but he didn’t quite wipe out.

[At least one of us should watch what we’re doing.]

“What happened in there?”

“My mafia ordeal is over, but I don’t quite understand how it finished.” She hugged a man she hardly knew and yet felt she had known all her life.

“We can talk about it later.” Tariq gripped the girl. My hunch is that for better or stranger, my life is much different than only a minute ago.

[Now what do you think about prayers?][/private_Chevron]

Chapter 13 of Loki’s Trojan

Forget-Me-Knots on Ancient Ruins

[private_Chevron]“People seldom examine the whole set.” Lyra split the ring and took the door key. Bob hadn’t used this one lately and probably wouldn’t notice it was gone. After stashing her treasure, the female crept into the room and slipped the slightly lighter fob back into the warden’s abandoned pants.

I should do the lipstick deception under the sheet whilst beside him. If he awakened, she could employ maneuvers to mask her actions. A few tension-filled minutes later, she stirred in her slumber. The action covered her one hand secreting her lipstick tube into the join of the mattress and headboard. She watched for his waking, and didn’t have very long to wait.

“You’re not getting away from me so quickly.” Today, the CEO didn’t scramble up to scan for scattered condoms. Instead, he rolled onto his side and trapped the girl under his arm.

“~I do have a plan B.” Lyra mumbled and smacked her lips as if her mouth was dry but was unconcerned of the arm at her waist. “Party?” She pulled one arm free to pantomime sticking a needle in his arm. Will the thought of getting buzzed before the business day chase him away?

“Boinkee instead.” Bob lifted his one hand to make a donut hole with his thumb and forefinger. His other closed to a fist with the pointer finger repeatedly plunging like a piston into the loop. It was a universal sign that was unmistakable in any language.

He had to remove his arm to perform the two-handed gesture: the girl rolled away from his hold. She stood quickly and squirmed her legs tightly to indicate some bathroom urgency.

“Wait!” With a speedy motion that outdistanced hers, Wall shot out his hand and locked her wrist. “Me first. You take way too long.”

“~You don’t know that I understand English.” Lyra cocked her head as if trying to comprehend. “~You have to play our game by the established rules and use baby talk, charades or the dictionary.”

“Me,” he pointed to his own chest and then at the toilet, “pee-pee”.

“Well little buddy,” Bob already had himself in hand, as his shoulder nudged the bathroom door closed, “did we play hide-the-sausage again?” He looked down at the red smears that matched the shade of her smile. “I sure hope you enjoyed yourself because again, I don’t recall it at all.

“Ahhh,” what should’ve been just blissful bladder relief, “OW,” had a painful precursor: something tore free and preceded the golden stream. “Do I have the clap?” Then he remembered taking a sly precaution.

“Something here is bogus.” After leaving the Jacuzzi, the stoned nerd had plugged his penis tip with a dollop of Vaseline to prevent his catching any diseases: just in case he was too frenetic to reach for a rubber.

“My ejaculating night should’ve dislodged it.” Bob’s pondering mind took his attention from his aiming and warm wet droplets on his shins alerted him to the fact he was currently hitting the toilet seat.

“My come-bob-u-later is covered in lip marks?” He had to adjust his pointing anyways, so Wall bent over to take a close inspection. “This just looks like a haphazardly drawn line that’s been finger smudged.”

“That bitch has been pulling some fast ones over on me!” A realization of how completely he had been conned hammered his ego in a staccato of telling blows. “A knee in my nuts was probably no accident and crushing them again on the couch could’ve been purposely done.”

“That slut shot me up with heroin just to put me to sleep.” For what he knew, she mightn’t have even had her period when she claimed.

“She can clean up my mess or sit in it for all I care.” Bob observed the puddle he had sprayed on the seat. “She could’ve had a rich master but she has piddled on her only meal ticket.”

I got you again! Lyra was poised beside the bathroom door. No sooner he had stepped past the lintel, than she was brushing past. The girl smiled sweetly at his frown, in the instant before slamming the door in his face. He’s such easy picking, for my manipulations.

“~Oink! What a swine. It was a stool, vomit and now its urine.”

“You’ll rue the cloudy day you decided to rain on my hospitality.” Bob stood facing the closed door and staring thunderbolts through it. When he heard the shower start, he stormed off to his private office.

The CEO further vented some of his anger by spinning the deadbolt to her enclosure, with vehemence. “My slave isn’t going anywhere until I’ve paid her back—measure for full measure.” He patted his pocket and was rewarded by the reassuring jingle of keys.

“Wait a minute.” His hand still rested on the jagged bulge in his pants. “Where did I last see her needle kit?” It had been in the kitchen and she was currently in the bathroom. The junky can enjoy her withdrawal until I decide otherwise. He slipped back and snatched her supply. “The game from now on will be ruled by my one-sided referee.”

…

[The tender doe has the grizzled stag keeping a party animal’s hours.]

Tariq pried open his eyes and focused them on his cheap watch: it read one thirty. I assume it’s in the afternoon.

[You danced with your sweetmeat until dawn—now pay the piper.][/private_Chevron]

“Let me empty my mind of cobwebs before you fill it up with fluff.” He staggered to the fridge and drained a bottle of water. “I’m on nights because that’s when she can reach me: I’ll sleep when Bob’s in his office.”

[What if you miss something the irritating hemorrhoid is up to?]

“Good point.” Tariq winced. “I’ll forget about napping all together.”

[Your harem dreams have made you one mixed up camel-jockey.]

“Why are you ragging on me about her?” The man trudged his way to the small bathroom. “You sound like my older sister when I went through puberty.” He couldn’t resist taking a long glance in the mirror. “I’ve seen units with the same mileage looking far worse for wear—and you shut up.”

[I didn’t say anything.]

“I heard what you were thinking.”

[Liar! I can look into your thoughts but it’s one-way glass.]

“Why am I a mixed up camel jockey?” Tariq’s mind reversed.

[The featured film in your nocturnal theater had a Christian theme.]

“Jericho haunted my dreams.” The Iranian flushed, rinsed his hands and then plugged in his kettle. “Yum-yum,” he opened a jar, “the hype says this will instantly become coffee.”

[Why did you buy it? This is Seattle: there are far more cafés and java franchises than hooky-playing police officers to frequent them all.]

“It always struck me as odd for a sheik’s corporation,” Tariq changed the subject as he spooned some mystical brown powder and stirred, “would rest its faith in a firewall named for a Biblical battle.”

[Isn’t that name and it function also slightly oxymoronic?]

“At least!” The hacker chuckled at the irony. “What foonbone names a security barrier after walls that collapse to the sound of trumpets?”

[private_Chevron][Are we going to hear some loud bugle blasts today?]

“I’d like recreating the boom of Krakatau.” Purportedly, that Javanese volcanic island exploding made the loudest sound ever heard on earth.

[Krakatau was just a pop next to Odin’s cutting an over-ripe cheese.]

“This java is truly sludge.” The Iranian stared at the vile liquid in his cup. “Maybe it’ll be palatable after it grows cold.” He tickled his mouse and the screen sprang to life. “Let’s take a tuning-fork at the fortifications, to see if there are any acoustical changes since I last sang on the ramparts.”

Tariq put out his first tentative probe and the target system immediately shut him down. He took another sip of coffee and grimaced at its taste.

“A trumpet in the background would be appropriate,” with a download, he had Dizzy Gillespie playing, “and I can use all the help I can get.”

[Are you stalled in a thorny rut or a horny buck thinking about the rut?]

“That’s probably why I was fretful in my sleep.” The flustered hacker pulled his fingers away from the keyboard. “I have no idea how to crack in to where I must and just as few clues on how I’ll liberate Lyra.”

[You worked as the system administrator: you should know it cold.]

“I spent my time trying to find how to break into the firewall,” the ex-IT man smiled sardonically, “precisely to ensure that it was me-proof.”

[You were stalled, but now you’re purposely stalling.][/private_Chevron]

“I know,” it sucked to be arguing with a presence that knew his mind better than Tariq did, “but I have days to do what I couldn’t do in months.”

…

I would cut her clothes away with a razor knife while Sergey chained her ankle and then I’d push her overboard. Bob’s mental imagery played out a juvenile violence fantasy. The ship would be moving so she would drag over a reef and her blood would draw the sharks—like in that Bond movie—except she wouldn’t escape in the end. A slice of reality then intruded on his imagining: Wall didn’t currently have a boat.

“That situation is unacceptable.” The nerd mumbled. “I ought to have the world’s biggest yacht and with the second largest as my spare.” His glance to his side found the event coordinator frowning at his inattention.

Drowning while being chewed by sharks is too quick and painless for her. As background noise to his mental vignettes, Wall heard the keynote speaker rumbling like a diesel generator at a remote cabin—where the girl was tied naked to a tree as wolf bait. I’ll bite her in choice places before the timber wolves finish her off. The CEO would’ve gladly ditched out, but this symposium was going to net too many buyers for him to miss it.

“Just hold on.” The geek put his cell phone to his ear after pretending to get a vibrate ring. “I’ll find somewhere I can talk.” He apologized with a nod to his disapproving hostess and she pointed a door that led outside.

“Frigging Russians or Ukrainians or who the hell cares what they are.” He kept the phone with the dead air at his ear. I should be allowed to talk to myself whenever I want without having to make any pretense to hide it.

“I’ve earned the right to a lot of stuff that never quite works out as I want.” One was Sergey not giving a free replacement for the defective slave. [private_Chevron] She should’ve had a warrantee. Bob bemoaned the mobster having pressed to have that one back in trade and with a web portal link thrown in as a deal sweetener. Wall had been forced to agree or be stuck with the girl who had abused him. “I’m required to provide an Internet advertisement so guys can leave my portal site and drool over a girl that I had—but didn’t take. Where is the justice that extreme wealth is supposed to buy?”

Fine, I see I have only two minutes. Bob looked into the door’s small window at the woman signaling him with that many fingers aloft. “I also have two days to get revenge for everything that mafia whore did to me.” In two days, one of the mobster’s underlings would make the swap. “And I’m wasting one of them at this piece-of-crap gab fest.”

“What can I do to her in one day that makes up for my living hell from a solid knee to my gonads?”

I’ll have a surgeon sew a set of testicles onto her: so I can kick them and let her know exactly what it feels like. So what if it wasn’t medically possible yet. I’ll fund research into female-to-male gender operations and she’ll the unwilling test subject. Bob realized the retaliation wouldn’t be practical in the short time frame but adolescent daydreams generally don’t have plausible plotlines.

“At least she’ll be going through withdrawals.” He had her medicine in his suitcase. “Tonight I’ll try only using half of what she injected me with. I’ll have a better knowledge of how to get the proper service from my next slave.” Sergey had assured him this one was broken in better. “I won’t make the same mistake of coddling my next one.”

The CEO scuffed his foot at a clod of dirt on the cement. “This is Lyra.” He crushed the lump under his toe and ground it into powder. A spider was near the door and he squashed it. “That was my slave girl too.”

Looking back into the glass, Bob could see the hostess inside dancing in her seat and showing him one finger. “I have one digit for her too and it isn’t that one.” Wall had one minute before they wanted him inside and only one day to get into the girl he should’ve had all along. “There won’t be even one single minute of it wasted. I’ll tie her to the bed with barbed wire and do what I should’ve done on day one.”

He shut his phone and opened the door. Smile for all the nice jerks: I better make this speech a good one: to be worth what I gave up to give it.

…

“~You’ve been awfully quiet lately.” Sergey confronted his top man: then switched to English for practice. “One might even call you taciturn.”

“Why speak when there is nothing that requires talking about?” The Anaconda regarded his boss with the scowl he had worn since the girl left. You forced a newly learned word into our conversation but incorrectly. His uncommunicativeness wasn’t habitual before: it had become so.

‘Reticent’ described him better. The Anaconda was unwilling to talk or reveal all the facts. His allowing Sergey to live with the knowledge of the earlier intimate injury from a woman had cost Victor part of a lifetime in service to a lesser man. He wasn’t going to repeat that mistake.

“Perhaps two men should chat just because they are such very good friends with a long history.” The chief mobster viewed his pet Anaconda. Something had changed in the enforcer’s demeanor but perhaps it was only a continuation of a subtle shift in his behavior that began when the girl was taken. “Howsoever, at this timorous juncture we have much to discuss.”

“I suggest you mean tumultuous.” Anaconda would’ve left the word unchallenged but didn’t want to participate in a conversation that smacked of fear or hesitancy. He had neither apprehension nor fright. I could kill the Obshina with bare-hands in seconds if it served my newer objectives.

“The client is dissatisfied with our merchandise.” Sergey grinned expansively and punched his subaltern’s shoulder. He didn’t realize how close he stood to his impending mortality. “I’m sending you on a vacation and perhaps, it will lighten your mood.”

“The female?” The ex-Spesnaz commando glowered. Worse than the pain of loosing his manhood was his morning upon waking to the reality. After tearing his hand free of the pantyhose bonds, his fingers had explored his un-manning wound. Even that was not as bad as later in the bathroom.

“My friend, I never expected you to fail in any way but I believe you performed her indoctrination too successfully.” Sergey chuckled wickedly as he imagined the atrocities performed against her. “She hasn’t satiated the rich American and she’s ridiculed him.”

“I am to dispose of the defective product?” The disfigured man’s dark emotions surged. I’ll kill her slowly on a toilet seat. Anaconda recalled his first morning’s urination. It was a spray of buckshot from a gun sawed off at the breech. I had to sit to finish—like a female!

“Get ready to go and we can discuss more details when I have them.”

The Anaconda’s stride was parade square crisp as he marched away. His decision of what would happen to the woman was already locked and loaded in his mind. A need for vengeance wins over lingering loyalty. I’ll follow Sergey’s orders but only insofar as they coincide with my desires.

…

[Your thoughts now are as convoluted as your semi-erotic dream was.]

“I’m switching back and forth between watching the doings at Wall Soft, while unsuccessfully trying to burrow into the Jericho fortress. I’m also too concerned about Lyra to make any progress.” Tariq took sip of his now cold cup. “I need an inspiration—and better coffee.”

[Then stop whining and go get a decent shot of caffeine.]

The programmer dumped his half empty mug into the sink on his way out: he moved on autopilot because his brain was absorbed in his thoughts. That security firewall resists my every attempt, as I knew that it would.

“I’ll have a large latte with skim milk and no foam.”

[Keeping your figure trim to impress the female?]

“A chocolate chip cookie and what else?” The youth taking the orders had a vast assortment of facial piercing. The dozen or so studs and rings partially obscured the tiny headphones that were also wedged in his ears.

“A skinny latte: hold the foam.” Tariq elevated his volume and tapped his finger on an inverted stack of large-sized cups. “The coffee’s flavor comes through the slim milk better.”

[Omit the cream completely and you’ll have the full taste.]

“Then it wouldn’t be a latte.” The programmer watched as the staffer poured whole milk into the stainless steel carafe: the youth hadn’t heard a word over tunes blasting in his head. “Trumpets made the walls fall!”

[I missed something.]

“So did I until just now.” He cheerfully took his drink despite it’s not being what he originally wanted. It was still better than his earlier swill. “The firewall I’m trying to breach is watching for hack attempts. I’ve been using innocuous routes to try to get in. Presumably, those have been duly recorded. Had I been successful I could’ve deleted evidence afterwards.”

[What’s changed in your approach?]

“I’m going to make as much noise as necessary to flood the files. Plus, my brass band will be playing slightly off-key.” This is hard to explain in non-technical terms. “I’ll send numerous assaults but each will contain a non-equating equation. The firewall will note and save them but unsettled files should make stack errors. Sub-routines will try resolving the conflicts by reprocessing the data—that still just doesn’t quite add up.”

[I assume there is a breach created somehow.]

“Processor chips can only work so fast and people using the secure net still need to access the outside lines. With the incoming system swamped Jericho may lag in handling outbound traffic: if a gate delays—I’m in.”

[It’s like waiting for an apartment building door to open from the inside and catching it before it swings shuts.]

“This had better work on my first attempt.” Back at his workspace, the programmer found the email from Kiev. “Lyra is running out of time.”

“Warm up the brass section.” Tariq took the time to download more Dizzy Gillespie tunes. Sheik Ghazi, you’ll bear the full brunt of my current foul humor against Bob Wall. “It’s going to be loud and butt-ugly nasty.”

…

“This better be good!” The fearsome Sheik frowned down at his IT manager. His towering height over the tiny man was made more imposing by the underling being seated. “You pulled me away from a lovely lady.”

“There’s been a system crash.” The diminutive man trembled because his news definitely didn’t fit the label of ‘good’. “It was the maximum.”

“The maximum is a seldom achievable superlative,” the Arab held his ominously looming posture, “it’s as saying a car is the fastest or a woman is of ultimate sexiness.”

“This computer attack was far too brutal for a lesser description.” The computer man wasn’t used to human confrontation and his fear dripped on the blotter in the form of sweat: the office gossip hinted that bin Omani had actually killed employees that angered him. “I don’t know how a hacker could’ve cause worse damage than this one did.”

“Your duties,” Ghazi’s caustic words sprayed out complete with an acid rain of spittle, “were to prevent digital intrusion.”

“Achieving the ultimate in security,” the small man arrived at his terror saturation point and drew resolve from it, “is as impractical as finding a female who is too good in bed. Even with my administrator access, I don’t think I could’ve equaled such an excessive plateau of devastation.”

“Describe it for me.” Ghazi’s aggression subsided in the shadow of the impending revelation. Trepidation the IT man previously had—transferred back to the employer. As a barracuda leery of a mackerel, the sheik shied away from the desk. “Give it to me in detail.”

“The hacker collapsed our firewall. I don’t know how, as there are no records remaining. Once inside the security, he must have gained access to password files but that can’t be checked either.”

“How do you know that if the logs have been altered?”

“From the actions he was later able to perform, he needed to have total permissions and those could only be obtained from the root directory.” The information technologist wiped perspiration from his forehead. “Sir, I didn’t say the assess history registries were changed. They are gone.”

“A vandal broke into our system but deleted evidence of his actions?”

“Not quite—I mean. Mr. Omani, I’m afraid to tell you everything.”

“Was it your fault?”

“The hacker froze the duty tech’s monitors: he was unaware until it was too late. By the time I responded here, the system was long gone.”

“Then tell me straight out or you will have reason for your dread.”

“All the data is gone.” The tech manager had used his laptop plugged directly into the storage devices: that was the only way left to find out.

“How much information will be lost when we restore it?”

“Our backups were done for each of seven days, then the weeks worth went to a file until each month ended when a compilation was then stored.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

“After first erasing the data, the hacker must’ve spoofed the system into running consecutive backups corresponding to the appropriate dates. If he didn’t use high-security erasing protocols then we might eventually be able to reconstruct some of it. I haven’t been able to determine that yet.”

“Why?”

“The server computers are also destroyed.”

“Was he physically in the building?”

“He wasn’t here but short of smashing the boxes with a hammer—he couldn’t have done more harm. After the data was wiped out, he worked on the hardware. I suppose he set drive heads bouncing on the spinning hard disks. They are pitted and irretrievable. Then he must’ve fed looping equations into the processors from random access memory. The chips ran continuously and built up heat until they fried themselves.”

“Then he left the network?”

“There was really nothing left to leave. It would be like his talking on a phone with someone in a city obliterated by a nuclear bomb.”

“What do we still have left of Omani Corp’s computer system?”

“The computers in personal offices that were to be switched off at the time of the incursion should still be operational.”

“This is going to cost a fortune.” The bin Omani CEO dropped his face into his hands and unconsciously voiced his thoughts. “I have to replace the whole infra net and rebuild the data from my subsidiary companies.”

“I’ve been getting calls from subordinate IT people. There is massive damage in your group’s networks too. They’re all tied into this main hub.”

“All!” Ghazi looked up: his usually tan Arabic skin was chalk white.

“The hacker did the maximum damage.” The system administrator had to carefully guard his expression. Perversely, he had to take his hat off to the talented hacker. Fire fighters often found themselves in awe of a gifted arsonist and the IT tech had witnessed a masterpiece of digital vandalism. “His devastation didn’t miss a trick and that was after breaking a complex firewall touted as frangible only with divine intervention.”

“Is there any way—no matter how expensive—of finding who did it?”

“The FBI, Internet backbone providers or maybe Wall Soft would be your best source. Truthfully sir, even knowing if he is traceable is above my league of expertise.”

“Wall Soft?” Ghazi heard the paragraph but only absorbed one snippet.

“Their software is the platform on which most others run.”

The shaken Sheik staggered from the small office. He was too stunned to consider whether he should kill or fire the messenger.

“This will cost millions!” Sheik bin Omani underestimated. The final bill would ultimately come in at quadruple the amount of his lost ship’s worth. “Bob Wall the geek will sorely regret his poor choice of enemies.”

…

‘Did you and he have problems since we talked?’ Tariq answered his page after only a second and immediately went to the important business.

‘I think everything is still the same as ever,’ Lyra typed quickly, ‘but I don’t know much time I have: Bob didn’t show up but his office is empty.’

‘The CEO attended a geek speak in Chicago and stayed over’

‘Why did you ask if we had troubles?’ Bob frowned this morning but I was shutting him out again.

‘A swap is arranged.’ Tariq showed her a copy of the email. While she took several minutes to absorb the contents, he used the computer access to eliminate his previously left evidence.

‘Bob must’ve figured out what I’ve been doing.’ Retrospectively, his features responded too quickly, for my brushing past to have been the only reason. ‘Today he also took away my needle kit.’

‘May I ask you a personal question?’

‘Yes, but I’ll answer that one before you have a chance to pose it. No, but I don’t know why not. The drug just seems to have no effects on me.’

‘That’s not rare. I’m the same. I found out after a knee surgery, when given morphine to kill the pain—it didn’t even blunt it.’

Thoughts of the heroin reminded Lyra of the man she really should’ve killed when she had the opportunity. Anaconda will take revenge and I’m dead or worse than. She wanted to out type her fears: her fingers hovered but refused to budge.

‘Are you still there?’

‘I’m thinking.’ The girl pecked. ‘Your news is devastating me.’

‘Then I’ll get you out of there.’

‘Can you do that?’ Her dashed hopes elevated slightly.

‘I’m not an army.’ The programmer realized his rashness. ‘You saw what happened last time I tangled with them alone.’

‘Then this chat is probably my swansong.’

‘I’m not giving up and neither are you.’ Do you know why Bob would want to send you away? Could he change his mind? Do we want him to? Tariq’s mind cycled through questions but none fit what he most needed to know. ‘Can we buy some more time?’

‘My dealings with Bob are like a teetering stack of raw eggs. It’s too convoluted to elucidate but any one discovery breaks the remainder.’

‘Your command of English amazes me: I’ve never even heard a native speaker say elucidate. I can’t detect an accent in your typing either.’

‘That’s humorous: Bob doesn’t know that I speak one word of it.’

‘A helicopter will arrive at Bob’s office where you’ll be exchanged for another girl.’ He recapped information she already had from the email. ‘You’ll fly to Sea-Tac airport and transfer to a jet bound for Detroit.’

‘That could be a switch. When I came here from Ukraine we avoided immigration by having another plane as a decoy.’

‘What date was that?’ With the information, Tariq checked in Bob’s files. ‘This destination is true. I found billing information from that other journey. They’ve set up the same ploy to bring your replacement but both those flights terminate before you’re due to take off to Detroit.’

‘If the Anaconda shows up to pick me up, it doesn’t matter where the flight is going to, because I won’t land in one breathing piece’

‘Was he was the pig walking on his hind legs?’

‘That was Sergey. Next to Anaconda, he’s a cuddly teddy bear.’

‘What would stop him?’

‘A legion of crack troops probably couldn’t even slow him up.’

‘If I try to rescue you here in Seattle, we have only several brief and very poor opportunities. However, Sergey must have a reason for your going to Detroit. I could follow and find a better opportunity.’

‘I’m scared and I’m quivering. I can’t even think straight.’

‘Can I help?’ I’ll try pushing support through the link we seem to have.

‘Talk with me and tell me something I don’t know about you.’

‘I have a spirit in my head that thinks he’s a Norse god. He latched on during my afterlife journey. He’s a parasite sucking out my one-liners.’

‘LOL—really?’ The girl took her hands away from the keyboard and found they weren’t shaking so badly anymore.

‘I’m afraid so. That makes me a schizophrenic.’

‘It doesn’t if he’s real. Can he summon a militia of Vikings?’

‘He’s as useless to me as running-shoes are to a rattlesnake.’

‘What were you doing last night in Bob’s computer?’

‘This is what’s being delivered to Asia,’ Tariq opened a video box for her, ‘instead of the newest version of his program.’

‘It’s funny,’ Lyra recalled her lashing out at Bob by ruining his pens, ‘but it’s also a bit childish.’

‘On the surface and by only seeing the one incident—it is juvenile. I’m stirring up animosity between two big players.’ The programmer quickly outlined the attacks he reciprocally made on bin Omani.

‘A big corporation doesn’t go to war another over only a few incidents. If anything they might be scrambling to avoid further conflict.’

‘Do you want to hear an old man’s reminiscing?’

‘I don’t recall your being overly ancient—but sure.’

‘One night, in my teens, I snuck out my basement bedroom window.’

‘Was it to meet a girl?’ Lyra interjected. ‘Was she cute?’

‘If you must know, yes and yes. But that’s not the tale’s point.’

‘Juicy bits like that makes a story better.’

‘I didn’t get home until the wee hours of the morning.’

‘What were you doing with her that kept you out so late?’

‘I’ll let your prurient mind fill in that blank in my recounting.’

‘Ooh, you just made this narrative really nasty.’

‘You’re incorrigible.’ Tariq blushed at the flirtatiousness. ‘Anyways, I climbed into bed. And before you ask—I was alone. At least, I thought I was. Soon I felt something crawling under my covers.’

‘The teenybopper wanted more so she followed you home.’

‘Spiders had crawled in the window that I had left open for my way in. I found more of them in my search—actually they were harvestmen: folks here call them daddy-long-legs.’

‘If I was that particular girl,’ Lyra upped her risqué ante, ‘I would’ve been there to assist your hunt.’

‘If you were there with me,’ Tariq met the bawdy bet and raised it, ‘an arachnid invasion might’ve passed unnoticed.’

‘I’m liking this chronicle even more now. Please continue.’

‘I tried to sleep again but was wary. I soon felt another moving on my body and I rummaged my whole room again.’

‘I’m having trouble understanding how this equates to Bob and Ghazi.’

‘I’m getting there now. The second search produced the last crawling critter of the evening but I still didn’t sleep a wink. Every time I felt a hair flutter or if my active imagination detected a tickle, I was up and looking.’

‘They’ve discovered bugs. Each will check for a creepy-crawly when they experience any of life’s unexpected happenings. You’re a genius.’

‘I’m just a man.’

‘That’s a fact I’m also extremely well aware of.’

I have a number of possible responses in mind. Tariq’s fingers locked up. Who can blame her for just being lonely?

‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes. The worst thing I can do now to both of them—is nothing at all.’

‘It also leaves you free to be my knight in shining body armor.’

‘That’s my principle job.’

‘Meet me in Detroit.’ She made her choice. ‘That has the best chance.’

[A rattlesnake parasite that thinks he’s a Norse god!]

“I was checking if you eavesdropped on my private conversations.”

…

“~I’ve read this magazine so often I could recite it from memory.” The slave was curled up on the couch when the software CEO shuffled in.

“I have some special fun planned for tonight.” Bob stopped walking and looked at her. Was it possible that she was faking a nil command of his language? English wasn’t an obscure tongue like Finnish where only Fins mostly spoke it. Every place in the current world had some English in the vocabulary, for technical terms and to accommodate tourist trade and international business. Unless she was raised in an inaccessible corner of rural Ukrainian, the girl should’ve at least known a few English words.

“~Then I need to defuse those anticipated ploys.” The heroin bereft junky shouted at the man that took her drugs. She threw the magazine at him but it didn’t connect. The periodical was worn from overuse and the staples ripped free when she fired it. The blizzard of loose sheets lost their inertia and fluttered harmlessly. The cloud of paper dissipated to show her pointedly demonstrating her need. “~Addicted girls are uncontrollable.”

“Isn’t it here?” Bob lied for his own benefit and he pretended a search under the chair’s cushion. Should he just give it back to make her docile or withhold it for more punishment? Though easily predictable, Wall hadn’t anticipated this complication. “You’ll get your precious stuff back after I get what I want.” He abandoned his ridiculously unconvincing searching.

“~We’ll try your game,” she dropped to her knees and clasped begging hands, “~until we play mine instead.”

“That’s what I want first.” Bob unzipped his fly as he stepped forward.

This isn’t a playful contest anymore. The determinedly reluctant girl pressed her lips so tightly together they started to turn white. I can up the stakes as well. She tilted her head back slightly while defiantly thrusting her chin forward. As he can see, nothing is going into this mouth until the drugs are forthcoming. Lyra roughly shoved his hips away.

“Why don’t you just do things the way I want you to?” The Wall Soft CEO stood his ground a pace from her and glowered. “If I don’t get you under control first, you might savagely bite it.” He pointed to the bedroom and then signed a needle squirting. “I wanted you to suffer withdrawal a bit longer but I think I’ll be better served if you are passive.”

The girl urgently nodded her acceptance of the proffered deal. This is happening at too fast a pace but I can’t think of how to slow it down.

“That’s better,” he swept a hand gesture telling her to lead, “but once you’re under my firm control it’s going to get nasty for you.”

“~Do you think telling me your plans ahead of time is wise.” Jabbering eagerly in her own tongue, Lyra scurried towards the bedchamber. What has he brought with him? She noticed a shopping bag he had set down by the office door on his way in. I don’t have time for a peek just yet.

“Why didn’t you just behave like this from the start?” On entering the room, Bob found her already seated on her knees on the middle of the bed. Her face had a sultry smile and she was patting a spot for him to sit beside her. “Is it possible I’ve been wrong about your toying with me? All the while, you just wanted me to be forceful.”

“~Where did you get your shrewd insight into my female mind?” Lyra had her hands roaming his upper torso before Bob had finished taking his semi-seated position. I’m still not certain how I’m going to gain the upper hand. She snatched pillows to prop his back. “~I have the dreadful notion I’ll have to let you get further than I’ve yet allowed.”

“You like a powerful man who takes what he wants and I want these.” Bob went straight for the goodies. His arm swung over to cup his palm and splayed fingers on her right breast. “That’s a nice titty!”

“~Your foreplay is subtle but tremendously effective.” Lyra dislodged his groping hand by jumping and twisting to straddle his hips. This is the same position as when I tried making jam from his squashed berries. “~Too bad they aren’t as susceptible now as they were then.” No matter. I have other devices. In tandem motion with both hands, the fervent female pulled his front shirttails free of his belt. To follow up, Lyra employed all the strength and speed she could muster, to rip her hands up and away. “~You’ve now got the ravaging wench you so greatly wanted.”

“You really mean it this time!” His shirt was torn asunder with several buttons even flying free to ping off the walls. Bob dreamed about this kind of action and it was finally becoming reality.

“~It’ll keep getting better until it unexpectedly grows worse.” Smiling coyly, the girl leaned her face down as if about to kiss his lips. He grabbed my breast so his is now my fair game. Her target shifted and the slave’s teeth chomped hard onto her master’s left nipple.

“Ayee!” Those are sensitive. Moisture welled in his eyes in response to the sharp pain. Watch out Bob! She’s trying to wound you again.

“Grrrr!” Lyra released her clenched teeth as quickly as she had latched on. “~Didn’t you like my gentle nip?” Continuing to growl menacingly, the wild pussycat moved her snapping teeth higher up towards Bob’s face. The girl sustained her catty playacting by fully extending her tongue. The lioness then gave her enraptured prey a long lick from the tip of his nose to between his eyebrows. “~I’ll have to wash my tongue off with soap.”

“That felt incredible!” The shock of his bitten nipple was completely rinsed away by the velvety wetness of that sensational lick. His shoulders sagged under her two hands pressing her weight onto them and her bright blue eyes were staring intently down into his.

Lyra beheld his pale grey orbs for a long pause. Then, she scrunched her eyebrows as if racked by a sudden and intense pain. I’ve contrived him through some pleasant emotions. Now, he can have a taste of the reverse. She sat back onto her heels and pulled her elbows tightly into her sides. Lyra forced her body to shudder as violently as possible. Can he see how badly this junky needs her stuff? “~Does this make you feel heartless?”

“You’re earning your fix.” Should he ease her suffering? Bob watched as she flipped off him to adopt a dejected perch on the edge of the mattress. She deserved it for what she did to him but how could they keep the tempo in between bouts of her symptoms? Her back was turned and he observed several more spasms. “I’ll let you have your needle now.”

“~Remember, I don’t speak your language.” She spoke in a muted voice and her head remained turned away.

“Take it.” Bob pulled the kit from his pocket and tapped her with it. The relieved girl took the gift and hugged it to her breast. “Shoot up right here so it doesn’t take long.” He patted the bed and made needle gestures.

“~I don’t think so.” Lyra nodded in full agreement. I need him to make a motion to distract himself. The girl smiled and tugged at the kit’s zipper to peek at the treasure within.

The software CEO moved to sit upright: he placed his hands beside his hips to lever his legs over the edge of the bed.

“~That’ll work.” As quick as a scorpion tail from a hiker’s sneaker, the female jumped to her feet and nimbly outdistanced his hampered reaction to grab. As she reached the door, Lyra turned and looked back. Her finger and thumb tip held close together foretold that she would be quick about it.

“I thought it was clear you should do it here.”

“~I have another idea.” Lyra smiled wickedly at the man on the bed. She pantomimed removing a shirt and pants then pointed at Bob. That’ll give him something to occupy both his mind and his time.

The CEO aped back her stripping motions and pointed at himself for confirmation. Lyra nodded and grinned excitedly. She held up the kit between her two fingers and with the other hand, she confirmed the wait wouldn’t be lengthy. On her way out the door, she gave it a quick tug to allow it to partially close behind her.

“Little Bob is actually going to get boinked this time,” Software Wall set to finishing a disrobing the girl had started, when she ripped his shirt, “and nothing is going to stop it.”

“~We’re into the danger area now.” Lyra confirmed her misgivings for her mirrored reflection. “~Unfortunately, I haven’t seen a pathway out.” Bob has used more of this. She looked at the contents as she administered a small heroin shot into the sink’s drain elbow. I’ll time this to the very minimum of apparent necessity. I want time for a look at what he brought in his shopping bag. “~Prudence demands I know what is hidden there, before he can use it against me.”

Without a noise to mark her arrival and only a few minutes after her departure, Bob looked up to find the slave girl standing in the door. Her hand was wagging a naughty finger but her smile said this bad was good.

“~You brought me a brand new weapon.” A puckishly grinning female brought the bag into sight. With dramatically exaggerated motions, she peeked inside. Sinful boy! Her smile turned into a big round ‘O’ of mock shock and one hand covered it as if surprised at a sensual delight.

“I already know what’s in there.” His ears flamed a brilliant pink with embarrassment. Still, the CEO couldn’t resist giggling at her antics with it. He watched her dip two fingers in the bag and draw out a leather handcuff that was trailing a black cord. “I bought them in a dungeon shop. I didn’t know you were going to be so compliant today.”

“~I don’t intend to be yielding at all.” Around her sultry voice, Lyra prolonged her pantomime show. She looped the thong around her crossed wrists and held them up above her head. Does it appear as a slave girl is tied to a whipping post?

Software Bob watched her arched back and jutting butt writhing as if fighting her bonds in slow motion. Tantalizing gyrations were periodically punctuated with a twitch and a gasp as if in quick pains. Her acting was so realistic he could almost see the lash falling. She looked as a 1940’s pinup girl set into motion. Wall took a deep breath and followed it with a sigh when she finished her satire. “That was erotic in the extreme!”

“~That was just little a nibble of sweet jelly before a spoonful of bitter medicine.” Now he’s going to get the feature performance. Lyra started to dance. I don’t have music but hopefully he won’t notice that minor detail.

“Give me a show like on the boat.” The CEO had an ear-to-ear grin that almost made his face hurt. “And it’s got to have a happily ever after ending, cause I’m already naked.”

“~I performed there to save a decent man’s life. Now, I’m dancing for my own existence.” Her choreography melded from one erotic flow to the next. He can’t take his eyes off me, even to blink. She stripped quickly but artistically down to only her bra and panties. “~Now I’ve captured you, I can get to the real point.” She sang words to her dance’s rhythm.

Bob’s tongue couldn’t have spoken even if he had words to match his thoughts. I’ll call off the trade: I can’t give up this gem. Her show had now brought the scantily clad slave to the edge of the bed. She brought her chest to a whisker distance from his right hand. I can’t help but touch her. He extended his arm slightly to brush his palm along the side of her breast.

“Eeek!” She squealed an obviously feigned indignation and playfully slapped his the back of his hand. Lyra put her finger up to her head and pretended to think: her face brightened with an idea. Briefly stopping her performance, the girl skittered to the bag and extracted one of the cuffs and a cord. I don’t want to scare him off, so will start with just a hint of bondage. She placed only one wrap of cord around the offending hand and looped one wrap around the bedpost. We both know he could pull free of that in an instant—but this is only the beginning.

“This is fabulous!” With his wrist symbolically held, the girl smiled her appreciation and resumed her teasing. Her body was theoretically safe from his grasp so she pulled a section of her bra partially aside. His eyes received a reward in the partial sight of the taut swell of her one breast. He could easily move his hand and caress but Wall wanted more of this show.

Inexorably and without a full realization of what was transpiring, Bob fell under the mesmerizing woman’s spell. Over the next twenty rapturous minutes, the girl wove her beguiling magic. She would lure until he was moved to touch and then would secure him further before granting another minor gratification. The restraints gradually became tighter.

“I could watch you all night.” Sometimes she was on either side of him. Then in another minute, the girl was on the bed dancing above him. Her expressions and Russian words seemed mischievously sexy, impishly sultry, and all between. “The best part is knowing you’re mine in the end.”

“~I already own you because you’re solidly attached to the bed posts.” For a grand finale, Lyra positioned herself with one knee in each of Bob’s spread eagle armpits. With his head propped up on a pillow, his face was perfectly positioned for a full on look into the ‘V’ of her sex. The dancer hooked her thumbs into her panties and prepared to tug them down onto her thighs. I’m tempted to maliciously show you what you’re not going to get. Instead, she stood, stopped dancing and performed a curtsy.

“Encore!” Bob Wall tried to pull his hands together for a well deserved round of applause. “Hey, these are too tight for me to move them!”

“~You’re a captive audience but the show is now over.” Lyra hopped off the bed and bent to scoop her discarded clothing.

“This isn’t funny. Cut me loose.”

“~I recall your saying something about nasty things happening to me later.” Lyra checked and tightened the cuffs even further. “~I feel much safer with you just as you are now.”

“I’ll have Sergey punish you.” The CEO strained at his bonds. “Why am I threatening when you’re to stupid to even understand English?”

“~I’m dumb?” For the first time she considered showing her fluency, but held back. “~You’re tied to a bed—when your plan was for me to be.”

“Let me loose—pretty please with sugar on it?”

“~I’ll give you shot to put you out of my misery.” Lyra fetched the kit and readied a needle. Though he could move his elbow joint, Bob didn’t resist. “~You’re starting to like this stuff—that is really being the fool.”

…

“Many new duties have been appended on my job description,” Collin watched the helicopter tilting away, “but I never expected palace eunuch to be one of them.” The CEO’s message, ‘I’m unavoidably tied up,’ asked him to perform the requested function at an ungodly hour of the morning.

“~I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” The diminutive girl tugged the man’s jacket sleeve and sheepishly grinned at his attention.

“You appear to have been in recent accident.” Hersker beheld her face. One hand was holding flyaway blond hair from the departed helicopter’s rotor wash. Her body seemed thin enough to blow away in a stiff breeze.

“My boss asked me to make the exchange for him, but he neglected to mention what I was to do with you.” The asshole took the new woman to the office where he had collected the other one. Wall still wasn’t here and neither was there any indication of what Collin should do with the charge.

“Bob left a person unattended in his office but I can’t bring myself to so.”

“English nyet.” Oksana Gagarin smiled expansively at her escort. This wasn’t the same man as on the ship but she wasn’t disappointed about that.

“Russian Nyet.” Collin broke his eye contact with her and he looked at the door to the apartment.
“I suppose our only option is to seek for where Wall is tied up—or barring that, we get you settled into your new home.”

“Is anyone in here?” After several unanswered knocks, Hersker opened the green door and shouted. A walkthrough brought them to the bedroom where Collin stopped short. Wall was sleeping spread eagle naked and tied to the bedposts. He was breathing peacefully and didn’t appear to require immediate medical attention: in fact, he was even smiling.

A motion in the corner of Collin’s eyes or maybe it was her closeness to his elbow, caused him to turn his head. The blonde Ukrainian woman’s eyes flickered about the room and then she tiptoed to the slumbering man.

“~He’s just stoned.” Oksana’s fingers found needle tracks.

“So, what do you expect of me now?” Collin asked the comatose boss. Since the answer wasn’t forthcoming, the exec returned to the living room.

“~There’s no television!” Oksana drew a picture of a set in the air and turned an imaginary knob.

“~The magazines aren’t in my language.” She picked up several and then threw them back onto the coffee table.

“I’m sorry.” Hersker couldn’t resist intently watching her through the minor outburst. I’ve never seen anyone as emotionally exposed as she is.

“~How do I keep from going crazy?” The girl searched cupboards and nooks: disappointment showed in each negative discovery.

“I wish I could understand your words,” Collin said, “but I really don’t need to.” A human can’t exist in an intellectual void: even Bob couldn’t be so intentionally cruel. “I have to do something to rectify this.”

“~I’ll die.” Tears formed in Oksana’s eyes. “~I’ll kill myself.”

“You and I are going shopping.” The asshole could have some guards follow to protect a valuable asset from possible escape—and to tote the purchases. “Bob isn’t awake enough to contradict or uphold my decision. First, we’ll find a place to have some breakfast. Then after the stores open, we’ll buy a TV, magazines, books and a video game platform.” He mimed each item for both her benefit and to relish the delight so evidently shining on her animated features. Most men would probably choose the outgoing Russian as the beauty, but I personally find this one more appealing.

“How could Bob text me about a bound condition, from that position?” During what became a five-hour spree his thoughts returned to the bizarre apartment scene. “I suspect the CEO underestimated his outgoing slave.”[/private_Chevron]

“The strongest typhoons aren’t the most damaging.” Collin offered his wisdom to the non-comprehending young junky. “The ones that sneak into existence from a mild appearing tropical storm reeks sudden devastation.”

Chapter 12 of Loki’s Trojan

Predators and Prey on Digital Reefs

Bob pulled his fingers from his keyboard and swiveled to his safe. He entered the combination and twisted the handle.

“This is now worthless.” The CEO removed the insurance policy for his boat and tossed it into his out-basket for filing. “In fact, the premiums paid and the total purchase price were all a waste.”

He was about to close the strongbox, but his eyes fell on the slave girl’s passport. The edge of a tarnished silver dollar poked out underneath and Wall picked it up. He flipped it and it came up tails.

“If only it had been tails.” Bob reminisced on when he had gained the coin: it was likely the only time he wished the dollar hadn’t come to him. At a summer camp, Bob and Lindy had found the coin in a grassy glade. After she had lost her pocket money by flipping for cash, luscious Lindy agreed to play for clothing instead, and the fun really began. Finally, Bob was down to his underwear and she had just lost a flip for her panties.

Wall recalled how she had looked, but he had an even fresher vision of a similar sort. He used a remote to pause the video of the stripped lawyers at an especially revealing frame: it was a shot of Lauren Smyth with only a leaf covering her sex. The newscast would’ve censored this scene. Collin had diligently procured an unedited copy.

“Lindy looked just about like that,” with his eyes on the TV, Bob idly spun the coin on his desk, “and I should’ve lost my cherry that afternoon.”

Lindy had stood to strip off her panties, but she grabbed a poplar leaf before turning around. She kept the small cover on her clam and sat down.

‘We can play one more flip,’ she had offered, ‘for who is slave master.’

[private_Chevron]“All she made me do was to clean up her dorm room.” Bob recalled how he had masturbated for the rest of the summer, over mental imagery of Lindy as his utterly obedient slave. “I would’ve ordered much more.”

“I have the sex slave girl I’ve wanted ever since.” Wall tossed the coin back into the safe and locked it, but his eyes were already on the apartment door. “She should be finished dancing to her rag-time tune.”[/private_Chevron]

…

“Isn’t it about time to pull the plug for the night?” With regular surfing through the Wall Soft CEO’s computer, Tariq had the man’s routines timed almost to the second. The hacker had to snoop while Bob was working, as he invariably powered off when away from his desk.

[I like the guy they call the Asshole in their interoffice notes.]

“My over-a-shoulder view of Asshole’s unfolding investigation had me spellbound today too.” The hacker subconsciously checked back over his. He had set up a wireless network and was working in a small bistro across the street from his apartment.

[Is he more than just an unfriendly-looking sail on the horizon?]

“The Asshole is a looming sphincter of doom that could rectum all our schemes.” The Iranian smiled at the crazy man looks on the staff’s faces, in response to his self-mutterings. “From information the hind-ring was seeking, I’m guessing he’s suggesting dropping my Low-Key Trojan from the bundle. My hope is the Wall Soft CEO is too greedy to exercise due caution, before my Greek champions can safely climb out.”

[I’m flattered you named Loki after me]

“I can’t picture Erik the flatulent and his Norse raiders climbing into a wooden horse’s butt like Homer’s Iliad heroes did.”

[There’s more akin than unlike in all faiths. Zeus and Odin both used the same lightning bolts as the Christian’s one god did.]

[private_Chevron]“According to Scandinavian lore, you tricked Odin’s blind son Hod into throwing a mistletoe dart that struck and killed Balder the fair. How about you connive Thor into laying a hammering on Collin the butt-pain?”

[If you only wag the tale of legends then you myth the real point.]

Tariq pondered for a pause. Doubtlessly, wag also means to gossip. That made Loki’s implication more poignant than swishing like a puppy’s tail. Fables aren’t factual: they’re parables with a moral—like in the bible.

[Religions have always been the same messages but told in a manner that suited listeners, of the various eras.]

“Until now, I explained you away as a schizophrenic sub-personality. I suspected you were most likely triggered by brain damage suffered in my drowning episode. But you’ve just said something I couldn’t have possibly known on my own knowledge.”

[I didn’t. Death granted you more wisdom than you’re yet aware of.]

“Whoa!” Tariq instantly forgot the verbal/mental debate as the monitor screensaver kicked in: the geek had neglected to power down his box. “Wall’s system is mine.”

[Why the big deal? You’ve been snooping in his data for days.]

“But I could only search his files and stuff open on his desktop. A screensaver running means he’s away or at least he’s not paying attention. Now, I can risk running his applications. The uber-boss at Wall Soft has the permissions to access anything and the authority to make whatever I want happen—in real time.”

[Without being caught in the act?]

“It’s not quite that easy.” This work was now too complex for this venue and the programmer headed home. “If the idyllic fish currently on his monitor suddenly swim away, then a shark is near and I’m its lunch.”

[If you can’t do the time—then don’t do the crime?]

“Are reruns of Colombo being featured on an afterlife TV channel?” [/private_Chevron]

…

[private_Chevron]“~At what point does a humdrum routine find terminal tedium?” Lyra idly paced her cell. “~I should’ve started carving grooves in a wall to mark the passage of days, months and years.” She arrived in the kitchen and on passing the counter, decided to have a snack.

“Can you make me one of those too?” The slave master caught her in the act of fixing herself a sandwich.

“~You take it.” Lyra hurried to set it out on a plate for the man she seemingly adored. “~Something revolting made me lose my appetite.”

“Thanks.” Bob followed like a utility trailer to the table.

“~Can I get you some nice Hemlock,” the girl pantomimed drinking from a tumbler, “or maybe a sip of Draino?”

“Just some ice water will be good.”

“~I opened this stuff at least a week ago and the smell turned me off. Maybe it’s gone poisonous in the tin.” Lyra returned with some Clamato. “~What is taste appealing about mixing seafood and tomato juice? If you come back here in the morning I’ll put a squid in your coffee.”

“Have you learned more English?” He trailed his hand up her leg.

“~You don’t provide me with any books or fresh magazines.” The girl playfully slapped his fingers away and then wagged hers at him as if he was just being prematurely naughty. This prison doesn’t have a television set or even a radio. How can he expect me to do nothing but wait for the pleasure of his company? “~Why don’t I cut off your dick and mount it on the mantle? Then I can worship it constantly—as you presumably want.”

“I should tape record what you’re saying,” Bob munched and slurped between words, “and then I can read transcripts of the translations.”

“~By tomorrow, that egg salad mixed with clam and tomato cocktail should give you a deadly case of gassy farts.”

“Let’s party tonight.” He stressed the only word she should recognize.

“Party.” Lyra parroted it and acted out squiring a needle in her elbow. “~I thought I’d have to somehow trick you into that.”

“Heroin wasn’t as bad as I expected. In fact, it was quite enjoyable.” The drug made his recent problems less worrisome and now, he had even worse headaches to escape from. “Let’s do it again.”

“~Idiot, why do you suppose the drug is addictive? If liquor tasted like turpentine and sent imbibers strait to hangovers without giving the state of inebriation, would there be as many alcoholics?”

“We can make love first if you want though and party later.”

“Yes party.” Not likely. The girl rushed off to bring the kit. Standing there talking was dumb on my part too. She almost blew an opportunity while giving him a lecture that he didn’t understand.

“Give me less this time.” He pinched his fingers together to indicate a smaller amount. “I want to wake and still recall everything we did.”

“~I’m the expert and you’ll get as much as you got last night.” She nodded to confirm her comprehension of his request. “~Maybe you need some extra in case I perform that penis amputation after all.”

“I do wish I understood Ukrainian.”

“~I would like to start speaking your language in front of you.” But I won’t do that while I’m treated as a slave. She prepared his shot and he took it without any hesitation.

“~Truthfully, I simply wish I had anyone to talk with—except you. Thai people say khik mach mach and it means think too much. It’s not good to spent too much time in one’s own head.”

“Now let’s quickly go and have sex while I’m getting high.” He took her by the wrist and pulled his prize wench toward the bedroom. “I did remember the first part of the other night.”

“~I’ve got a better idea.” Before he reached the bedroom door, Lyra suddenly changed direction and dragged him towards the bathroom. “~We have a perfectly good Jacuzzi tub that we haven’t even touched yet.”

“I’m such a lucky man to have you,” Wall spun the taps while the girl fetched some bubble bath soap, “for my intimate amusement.”

“~Will you still bless your good fortune when you’re peeing through a stub?” I shouldn’t even think such things. It brought the Anaconda to mind and made her shudder. That snake still alive somewhere.

I can delay my stripping and climbing in with a neck massage and a back scrubbing. She preplanned as he quickly undressed. If worse comes to worse, he’ll be like Sergey in the hot tub but as a seal with a limp flipper instead of a hairy walrus.

“This hot water is too damned relaxing,” Wall climbed out long before she needed to join him, “and I really have to pee.” He gestured what his need was and signed that she should head for the bedroom.

“~I suppose that you’re high enough now for that to be safe.”

A few minutes later, he was on the bed wearing a towel while Lyra was only beginning to disrobe. Bob soon lost the ability to focus well and the closer she came to being nude, the less he could recall why he wanted her that way. Then colorful darkness overwhelmed his eyes and all was good.

“~If only you weren’t so utterly selfish.” She looked at his peacefully sleeping face. The young woman was human and had desires for intimate relations. I would slash my wrists in despair before my lover was a master.

“~I’d better get to work before I do something I might regret later,” in a dimly lit room, Bob’s expressionless face seemed to transform into that of the Arabic man, “~involving a knife.” Lyra shook herself free of reverie to rummage Wall’s pants for the keys she expected to find there.

…

[Is the digital reef still devoid of cyber predators?]

“My bits have avoided nasty bites.” The hacker’s eyes flicked down to his tool bar to confirm the monitor in the Wall Soft CEO’s office was still displaying the serene aquatic backdrop.

[You’ve been cyber-diving for 3 hours. Are you spearing anything or just sucking your air-tanks dry?]

“Throwing bin Omani into higher prominence is a top priority and this ploy is aimed appropriately. I can also ink the water so Wall doesn’t know which tentacle belongs to whose octopus but I’m concerned that Hersker is snorkeling too closely and he might see through my deceptive murk.”

[His name translates to master in Norwegian.]

“The Master Asshole is tenacious but the nerd is still the boss.” The programmer sipped his coffee.

“Hopefully, I can tweak Wall’s ire past the point where he ignores the adept sphincter’s sound advice.”

[That’s a good theory. Where is the lab experiment to prove it?]

“Bob has half-a-ton of porn files saved on his hard drive. Erotica is a interesting subject in many respects.” Tariq had briefly delved into it when he first looked at the Internet. “Serious collectors start thinking about the images, and by extension the subjects, as personal property.” The Iranian opened up the file with Soviet Slut’s recent production. “Wall just went a quantum step further when he actually bought a featured starlet.”

[Freya really is incredible though.]

“I understand the allure the girl presented but it shows that pornography is a weakness for Bob. I can capitalize on that.” Tariq called up a release schedule for Wall Soft’s product line. Boxed copies of the latest upgrade version were already circulated in North America. The ones destined for Asian Markets were in production. “Most tasks have been accomplished but burning the disks is held until last to preinstall up-do-date patches.”

[That’s where the horsefly enters the ointment.]

“Where it burns like Ben-Gay lotion under Bob’s fly.” The hacker had been tempted to include Bob’s own collection as a specific insult but his ultra-savvy asshole made that far too risky. Instead, Tariq had found a nice assortment of porn with an Arabic theme.

[The feature film ‘Vixens in Veils’ stands as my favorite.]

“With some creative intrusion, I’ve can overwrite the CD master with Saudi flavored erotica. That will appear on retailer’s shelves across Asia, as soon as I have them delivered.”

[Via bin Omani Shipping?]

“The Sheik has filed a suit against Wall over his sunken ship. Software Bob should have a viable case against his nemesis as well.”

[How near are we to finished?]

“I’m at the critical phase. I’ve had to worry about the shark entering the water and have been poised to quickly close the applications.” Fortunately, Bob Wall had remained occupied away from his desk. Tariq had renamed the porn files to appear to match a Wall Soft installation disk and configured it. “The next step is the upload: I’ll become exposed.”

“I can’t leave a back-trail for our butt-sniffing bloodhound to follow.” The programmer would upload, transmit to the production facility and then replace the original at the source. “Later, if I manage to gain another unsupervised access, I can overwrite the master after the CD’s are shipped.

[Fire the harpoon!]

“Bob Wall’s wrath at bin Omani could make Ahab’s hatred of Moby Dick seem as just mild dislike.” The saboteur tapped his enter key. “Cross your flippers!” His eyes flicked between the screensaver status icon and a progress bar but he had nothing to do except wait, sweat, and guzzle java.

…

‘I can decide my stance and then spend sufficient funds to sway reality.’ Collin Hersker’s mind paraphrased Bob’s audacious statement. “Is he able to really do that with money, or is it more likely just his imagination with a walloping spoonful of wishful thinking?”

“Why am I doing this to myself?” The executive taxied his chair from his file-strewn office table, back to his desk. He glanced at the sapphire crystal face of his 18k gold Breitling Bentley. “Because, I like the things I can buy with the money.”

Collin flexed his fingers over the keyboard. In the back of his mind, he knew trinkets of wealth weren’t his motivation. He casually spun a ring on his pinky finger so that the diamond cluster faced outwards. Those were distractions he bought to avoid introspective musings—and treat successes.

“Having funds enough to alter reality.” Wall’s sentiment remained in Collin’s thoughts. “I suppose that’s really why he hired me. When dollars alone aren’t enough to buy the desired alteration, a stable of tame political figures could make up the difference with a few law modifications.”

He swiped his mouse across the blotter, but the screen did not respond.

…

Lyra moved silently through the office and shifted an end table to serve as her impromptu ladder. She fumbled slightly as the lock was at her full arm extension but the key slid into the socket. Success!

“~The key fits perfectly.” She twisted but the mechanism didn’t budge.

“~Maybe I need better leverage.” Stepping down, the young woman piled a stack of books on the table. That would give her a higher reach to exert more force. The stymied escapee ascended her wobbly platform.

“~Even with the additional torque the deadbolt isn’t pulling free.” This isn’t the right key. It fit the same style of lock barrel but the tumblers didn’t match the serrations. Frustrated tears blurred her vision whilst she replaced her furniture rearrangements. “~I thought I was so close!”

What does this key open? Her eyes fell on her gilded cell’s door.

“~From this direction the deadbolt is a toggle but from the other side a key is required.” Bob needs a way of getting out if someone accidentally locks him inside. She tried the disappointing key in the deadbolt housing. ‘—Snick—.’ It turned like lubed clockwork.

After her brief foray in the lintel of her apartment entry, Lyra returned to the CEO’s office. A motion from the desk caught her peripheral vision. A bright blue parrotfish glided across the extra-large monitor screen.

“~Bob left his computer on this time.” She scurried to park her butt in the plush chair. “~Can I access the Internet and send a plea for help?”

“~First, I have to see if there is a screensaver password to crush my hopes again.” She took hold of the mouse and stroked it on its pad. A big yellow angelfish had joined the parrot but both suddenly vanished to show an accessible desktop. “YES!”

“NO!” On the other side of the city, Tariq yelled. Wall couldn’t have possibly caught me with my boxer shorts further down around my ankles. Shutting the hack off would loose his work and the incriminating files were prominently displayed on the office screen.

“~Bob left his computer running a long upload function.” Lyra clearly saw the progress bar and the filename. “~No, he couldn’t have done that.” The indicator was moving too fast to have been in progress since Wall left. He must have a macro set to run at a specific time. “~I should interrupt the instruction mid-run and cause some minor annoyance—like the pens did.” She hovered the mouse pointer over application termination button.

[Run away and live to fight another day?]

“It’s her.” The hacker-returned-from-death felt oddly certain about the fingers on the unseen keyboard. “I’ll wait and if I’m wrong, then in about four seconds, with a click on a remote mouse, my schemes will implode.”

“~I have the key to Bob’s office.” Lyra’s fingertip applied a pressure on the pointer button but she didn’t fully press it. Doing a small harm to an upload now, could loose me another opportunity later. After tracking her mouse arrow up to the tool bar, Lyra opened an Internet browser. I could send an email to the FBI and tell them I’m a prisoner? Maybe the INS would act quicker to evict an illegal alien. “~On the other hand, Bob doubtlessly has the clout to block any actions by authorities.”

“~I have no clue of who to request assistance from.” In truth, in the past weeks I’ve had no solid indication the world exists outside of my small habitat. Lyra typed the web address of her favorite Ukrainian web portal. “~I can solve that dilemma at least with some pleasurable surfing.”

“I knew it!” The Iranian-Canadian hacker followed the typing and saw the Cyrillic lettering that now filled the browser box.

“~Having mental stimulus again feels like an orgasm.” Simply reading something new on the screen had her body tingling. A sudden feeling of wellbeing brought her fingers from the keyboard and she sat back.

‘An angel kissed me alive.’ A text box opened and typing appeared.

‘A seraph knows,’ Lyra keyed in her response after a shocked pause, ‘when it’s not a hero’s time to fall.’

‘Without your divine interventions my span would’ve been over.’

‘I needed a champion to retrieve my clipped wings.’

‘Now that’s what I live for.’ Tariq pictured the female and as he typed the words: he knew they were true. I thought I had but one main reason to return to life. He knew it was a good one too but that, like his dream girl’s face, disappeared from mind on his awakening. I have acquired another.

[Life gains new purposes as you live it.]

‘Can you help me?’ Lyra Droski saw the keys as only a blur through the moisture welled up in her eyes.

‘I’ll certainly try my best. Tell me about your situation.’

The Russian slave girl spent the next minutes typing a brief account of her history and current environs.

‘Can you access that computer when you want to?’

‘I currently have a way to get into the office after hours but I have to be lucky for Bob to leave his computer on. He has boot up security enabled.’

‘Hold on a second. I’ll get you the password.’

‘How?’

‘Even most experts think of computers as being complex tools. But a programmer knows they are incredibly stupid robots that only understand the difference between off and on. Your average light bulb is smarter in that it knows off, on and degrees of dimness in between.’

‘I don’t understand your point.’

‘For a password to allow access, the computer needs a file to compare the input against, to get a yes or no answer. I know where the information is stored and how to read it.’

‘That makes sense.’

‘So does the computer geek’s password. It’s boinkbob.’

‘If he has even a two track mind then they both run parallel.’

‘Are you coping all right there?’

‘I’m much better now with your moral support.’

‘You have that and anything else.’ Tariq paused briefly in his typing. ‘It’s strange, I feel so close to you, but I don’t even know what to call you.’

‘It’s Lyra but I’ve never really had a name.’ I never tell anyone that! ‘I snooped in some Wall Soft files and I’m guessing your name is Tariq.’

‘You’re correct to a point but I suppose I’m akin to you in that my real name isn’t mine anymore either.’

‘I’m concerned we’ve said too much.’ She felt secure in trusting him with one of her innermost secret but scrolling up the textbox showed what they talked about. ‘After all, this is Bob’s computer.’

‘After we’re finished, I can utterly eliminate all the evidence.’ Tariq’s empathy for her brought a claustrophobic impression of what her existence must be like. Everything around her belongs to a man who surmises that he owns her body and soul too. ‘How are you hanging in?’

‘I’ve been growing depressed but I still have trump cards,’ the girl felt confidence renewed, ‘you’ve given me hope, to play them with finesse.’

‘If you need or want to contact me just click on the site administrator’s icon.’ Tariq gave her a web domain address. ‘I’ll set an audible alert and will open up a text box within a maximum of five minutes.’

‘Can we just chat for a while?’ Lyra dreaded the conversation’s end. ‘I haven’t had anyone to talk to for a long time.’

‘I’m yours for as long as you like. You’re the expert on how much time you safely have.’

‘I wish I could’ve watched Bob’s yacht sinking.’

‘It didn’t just sink.’ Tariq hesitated while thinking of a picturesque way to describe the event: she deserved to get as much pleasure as possible from it. ‘The boat’s bottom was ripped out, as if two dolphins wielding chainsaws had cut the waterline away. The crew bailed out like Norwegian rats and the whole bay was carpeted with floating debris.’

‘ROFLOL.’

‘I think I heard your giggle all the way from here.’

[ROFLOL?]

She said ‘Rolling On Floor Laughing Out Loud’. That acronym word has been around since the Internet’s bronze age: your afterlife linguistics department is somewhat out of date.

The lighthearted discussions continued until the girl finally decided she had best prepare for her captor’s awakening.

‘Good night Tariq.’

‘Sweet dreams. I’ll put everything back to exactly as Bob left it.’

…

“I’m just overtired.” When his mouse failed to reactivate the screen, Collin Hersker remembered he had turned off the box while he had worked with the paper files. He switched the power on and watched the boot-up. It really does go faster with that Handshake Lite interface. He normally didn’t watch, but rather turned on the power and then fetched a coffee.

[Asshole alert!]

“That was certainly close,” the hacker saw the executive’s access open up, “but the asshole just missed crapping on my capers.”

[What happens now?]

“A 22-hour production run will burn twenty thousand copies of smut.”

“Nothing seems pressing,” Collin took a quick peek at his email and his digital in-basket, “so why do I have a feeling I’ve just missed something?”[/private_Chevron]

“Once the disks are sealed into jackets, they will be collated into boxes with the manuals.” Tariq logged out. “Six days from now a courier will collect the shipment and two weeks later, they’ll be distributed in Asian.”

[Catapulting Wall’s corporate image right up his Pacific Rim hole]

Human 2.0 – People As Seen in 4-D

You see a photo of someone. It is in the two dimensions of height and width. Or is it really?

I recently read of a study where a group of people were shown a stack of photos. They were asked to separate the images into two stacks. One pile was for the person in the photo that they felt they might like if they met the pictured person. The other pile was for those persons who didn’t seem as someone they could relate to.

What the people in the study weren’t told is that half of the pictures were of people who were currently living, while the other half were of people who had passed on. Can you guess the result? By a very large margin, the pictures in the ‘I don’t think I would like‘ piles were of the dead people.

This suggests that even a supposedly 2-D image has a 4th dimension that extends beyond the realm of life. Now consider a living person who you meet in person. The person has height and width, as the photo does but there is also depth. But this living person is not simply like a holographic projection. He or she could be speaking, which you hear. They might be wearing perfume or cologne that you can smell. And you know that there are workings inside the person’s mind that also flavors the encounter. These add to the physical presence but those are not the 4-D that I’m describing.

[private_Chevron]

The person is more than height X width X depth. Just like in the photo study of dead vs living subjects, a human soul extends continuously into the spiritual dimension.

[/private_Chevron]