The 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes knew exactly what was happening when she awoke in her resort hotel room with the bed shaking and pictures falling off the wall and all her small possessions getting knocked off the desk and dresser tops. She'd been in one before, worse than this. It was an earthquake.
She barely moved. She was barely awake and although she knew it was an earthquake her body was slow to action. It was all over in a few seconds anyway. Nothing fell on top of her. Nothing but minor damage, really, except that electric power and telephone service were lost.
She rose from the bed. She almost tiptoed to the door of her room, conscious she was barefoot and that she could step on something sharp that might've fallen to the floor. She could hear the panicked voices of other guests, ones less worldly and experienced as she. She opened the door and went outside, still barefoot in spite of the possibility of broken glass or some other hazard in the hallway the result of a moderate earthquake.
It was a Tower of Babel out there. Hysterical people trying to be calmed by less hysterical people. All different languages. Finally, a hotel employee came and assured the guests, in the language of the host country, that all was well and no structural damage had come to the hotel and that they would have power in the hotel provided by a backup generator. Cooking would be done. Water was running.
But no telephones. Cell phones didn't work. And the guests couldn't leave. All vehicles had been comandeered to help the people of the nearby village. Any guest needing medical assistance would have to wait for a helicopter. But there were no such injuries, thank goodness.
The 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes translated for a few of the guests. She was American, working as a journalist for a news agency in this nation. She adopted the pen name of Molly Seymour, a combining of the names of her favorite muckraking columnist and the man she considered the greatest investigative reporter of the 20th century. But she was on vacation now, a much-needed 10 days off. It was only her third day, and now this.
Four days later, and no one had left the hotel. No one could. No vehicles, still. No phones to let loved ones know everything was OK. But if you were going to be imprisoned, this was the place. The pool was heated. The food service wasn't interrupted. Tennis courts were open. Guests could still hike the desolate yet beautiful countryside. The 40-year-old blonde woman had plenty of activity to take her mind off the fact she couldn't contact anyone. Not her husband in the USA. Not her office in the capital. No one.
She stayed active to keep her mind at peace. Swimming in the pool gave her a nice bit of suntan. Tennis and lawn bowling. Native music played in the club in the evening. Life was good, even if mobility wasn't.
But that morning, a helicopter arrived. Was someone in distress? No, the pilot and his passenger asked for her, Molly Seymour. She was being taken back to the capital. The news agency must have hired it to get her. She packed, got on the copter and took off for the capital almost 300 miles away.
When the copter hit the tarmac, and the 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes got off, there was no one from her office waiting for her. Just a couple of police officers. Expressionless. They approached her and asked if she was Molly Seymour. Before she could answer the cops grabbed her arms, pulled them behind her back and handcuffed her.
"You're under arrest," one said.
"Under arrest? Why?"
"That's none of your business."
Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore, or any other civilized place. This was the sort of land where you could be arrested and be told your arrest was none of your business.
The police hustled her into the back of an armored Land Rover. Inside, other police officers pulled off her shoes. They began cutting away her clothes with knives and box cutters, with her hands still cuffed behind her.
"What do you think you're doing!" she screamed in her native tongue -- what she did when she was too shocked to switch into the language of the land in which she happened to be -- while helpless to struggle against a horror that was happening to her.
"Where you're going you don't need clothes," said the one officer would could speak English.
Several agonizing minutes later, and the 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes was as naked as the day she was born, save for the cuffs around her wrists. They rode on for a few more minutes. The police said nothing. They sat motionless, oblivious even to the fact that an extremely attractive American woman was naked beside them. They didn't so much as peek at her large breasts, round bottom and long, shapely, slightly muscular legs.
The Land Rover pulled into a garage. The 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes was hustled through a doorway and into a hall. She was forced to stand while an officer wrapped a blindfold made from a ripped bedsheet across her head. Once the knot was tied behind her head, and she could see no longer, she was dragged along for a few hundred feet, her bare feet feeling the cold of a concrete floor in a building that was air conditioned far too well. Only a government building could be air conditioned like this.
Her escorts finally stopped, took off her handcuffs, grabbed her roughly and sat her on a table. The pushed her back against a wall and pulled her arms up over her head. She could feel them tying ropes around her wrists, then tying the other ends of the ropes to what she tought were hooks in the wall, well above her shoulderblade-length, thick, blonde hair, much of it now falling across her round face.
They grabbed her legs and spread them, though not far apart. A Velcro cuff was placed on each ankle, then hooked onto eyes in the table on the outside of her legs, or so she assumed. Then another Velcro cuff was put on each ankle and hooked to eyes in the table on the inside of her legs. She was now virtually motionless.
The officers left the room. The 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes sat alone, naked, bound, blindfolded. Screaming would do no good. She knew what was coming next.
She was going to be tortured.
What would it be? Electric shock? Suspension? Bastinado? Some of each? They did it all in this country. As a reporter, she had interviewed a few torture victims. She knew. She knew why. They weren't above torturing children as young as 12.
After what seemed like 20 minutes, footsteps could be heard. Louder, as the heavy boots came closer to wherever it was she was being held. Louder. Very loud now. A door closing with the unmistakable creeking noise, slowly, as the door is old and heavy. Finally, a slam, the turn of a key. The heavy boots coming toward her.
Finally, a voice.
"Hello, Valerie."
CHAPTER II: Tell Us What We Don't Know
She barely moved. She was barely awake and although she knew it was an earthquake her body was slow to action. It was all over in a few seconds anyway. Nothing fell on top of her. Nothing but minor damage, really, except that electric power and telephone service were lost.
She rose from the bed. She almost tiptoed to the door of her room, conscious she was barefoot and that she could step on something sharp that might've fallen to the floor. She could hear the panicked voices of other guests, ones less worldly and experienced as she. She opened the door and went outside, still barefoot in spite of the possibility of broken glass or some other hazard in the hallway the result of a moderate earthquake.
It was a Tower of Babel out there. Hysterical people trying to be calmed by less hysterical people. All different languages. Finally, a hotel employee came and assured the guests, in the language of the host country, that all was well and no structural damage had come to the hotel and that they would have power in the hotel provided by a backup generator. Cooking would be done. Water was running.
But no telephones. Cell phones didn't work. And the guests couldn't leave. All vehicles had been comandeered to help the people of the nearby village. Any guest needing medical assistance would have to wait for a helicopter. But there were no such injuries, thank goodness.
The 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes translated for a few of the guests. She was American, working as a journalist for a news agency in this nation. She adopted the pen name of Molly Seymour, a combining of the names of her favorite muckraking columnist and the man she considered the greatest investigative reporter of the 20th century. But she was on vacation now, a much-needed 10 days off. It was only her third day, and now this.
Four days later, and no one had left the hotel. No one could. No vehicles, still. No phones to let loved ones know everything was OK. But if you were going to be imprisoned, this was the place. The pool was heated. The food service wasn't interrupted. Tennis courts were open. Guests could still hike the desolate yet beautiful countryside. The 40-year-old blonde woman had plenty of activity to take her mind off the fact she couldn't contact anyone. Not her husband in the USA. Not her office in the capital. No one.
She stayed active to keep her mind at peace. Swimming in the pool gave her a nice bit of suntan. Tennis and lawn bowling. Native music played in the club in the evening. Life was good, even if mobility wasn't.
But that morning, a helicopter arrived. Was someone in distress? No, the pilot and his passenger asked for her, Molly Seymour. She was being taken back to the capital. The news agency must have hired it to get her. She packed, got on the copter and took off for the capital almost 300 miles away.
When the copter hit the tarmac, and the 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes got off, there was no one from her office waiting for her. Just a couple of police officers. Expressionless. They approached her and asked if she was Molly Seymour. Before she could answer the cops grabbed her arms, pulled them behind her back and handcuffed her.
"You're under arrest," one said.
"Under arrest? Why?"
"That's none of your business."
Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore, or any other civilized place. This was the sort of land where you could be arrested and be told your arrest was none of your business.
The police hustled her into the back of an armored Land Rover. Inside, other police officers pulled off her shoes. They began cutting away her clothes with knives and box cutters, with her hands still cuffed behind her.
"What do you think you're doing!" she screamed in her native tongue -- what she did when she was too shocked to switch into the language of the land in which she happened to be -- while helpless to struggle against a horror that was happening to her.
"Where you're going you don't need clothes," said the one officer would could speak English.
Several agonizing minutes later, and the 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes was as naked as the day she was born, save for the cuffs around her wrists. They rode on for a few more minutes. The police said nothing. They sat motionless, oblivious even to the fact that an extremely attractive American woman was naked beside them. They didn't so much as peek at her large breasts, round bottom and long, shapely, slightly muscular legs.
The Land Rover pulled into a garage. The 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes was hustled through a doorway and into a hall. She was forced to stand while an officer wrapped a blindfold made from a ripped bedsheet across her head. Once the knot was tied behind her head, and she could see no longer, she was dragged along for a few hundred feet, her bare feet feeling the cold of a concrete floor in a building that was air conditioned far too well. Only a government building could be air conditioned like this.
Her escorts finally stopped, took off her handcuffs, grabbed her roughly and sat her on a table. The pushed her back against a wall and pulled her arms up over her head. She could feel them tying ropes around her wrists, then tying the other ends of the ropes to what she tought were hooks in the wall, well above her shoulderblade-length, thick, blonde hair, much of it now falling across her round face.
They grabbed her legs and spread them, though not far apart. A Velcro cuff was placed on each ankle, then hooked onto eyes in the table on the outside of her legs, or so she assumed. Then another Velcro cuff was put on each ankle and hooked to eyes in the table on the inside of her legs. She was now virtually motionless.
The officers left the room. The 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes sat alone, naked, bound, blindfolded. Screaming would do no good. She knew what was coming next.
She was going to be tortured.
What would it be? Electric shock? Suspension? Bastinado? Some of each? They did it all in this country. As a reporter, she had interviewed a few torture victims. She knew. She knew why. They weren't above torturing children as young as 12.
After what seemed like 20 minutes, footsteps could be heard. Louder, as the heavy boots came closer to wherever it was she was being held. Louder. Very loud now. A door closing with the unmistakable creeking noise, slowly, as the door is old and heavy. Finally, a slam, the turn of a key. The heavy boots coming toward her.
Finally, a voice.
"Hello, Valerie."
CHAPTER II: Tell Us What We Don't Know
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