A tremble went through the whole body of the 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes, from the tips of her bare toes to the tips of her long fingers wiggling far above her head to the top of the scalp from which her thick yellow hair sprouted. How could this guy know who she was? No one knew who she was in this country. Not her co-workers at the news agency. Nobody.
Stay calm, she told herself. Stay calm. Don't give yourself away. Keep cool. You've been trained for situations like this.
"Oh," she said with a slight giggle in her voice. "You have the wrong person. I'm Molly Seymour. I work for ...."
"Valerie," said man she could not see. "It's no use. We know who you are. There is no Molly Seymour. You're no more a journalist than I'm the pope."
Stay calm. You can get through this.
"Please," she said, writhing a little against the straps that held her arms to the wall and her legs securely to the table. "Let me go. You made a mistake. I'm not who you ..."
"Let me tell what happened in your country in those days you were stuck at the hotel," the man said, a hint of anger now rising in his voice. "You're quite a celebrity in America now."
He paused. Fear now overtook the 40-year-old blonde woman. Her throat went dry. Her toes were now like icicles, as cold as her hands from which the blood had long ago drained from being held above her head for so long. She suddenly became conscious of her nakedness, and what this man might do to her trembling creamy flesh to get her to admit that yes, she was an American spy.
"It seems your government is none too happy with your husband," the man said, his voice now softer and almost mocking.
Her husband. A career diplomat. No party affiliation. Just a smart, personable guy who believed in his country. What about him? What has become of him? What is this bastard talking about?
"Your administration is trying to build its case for war with Iraq, Valerie. Your husband has thrown a bit of a roadblock in front of their plans. Wasn't he supposed to make a link between Iraq and some backwater African nation? Wasn't Iraq supposed to be buying ingredients for a nuclear weapon from this nation? Your husband made the mistake of telling the truth, Valerie. He said there was no sale of any such material. That's not what your government wanted to hear."
He paused. She collected herself.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, frustrated that the blindfold across her eyes prevented her from seeing the man who, no doubt, was going to torture her to get what he wanted.
"Some low-level -- how do you Americans say it? -- flunky? Some flunky in the administration leaked your name to a sympathetic journalist. The journalist then announced on television that this traitor is married to a spy. So now America and world knows who and what you are, Valerie."
No way, she thought. Not a chance.
"You're lying," she practically spit at her captor. "No government reveals the identity of its intelligence agents. You know that."
"Ah, Valerie, those were the old rules. This new administration of your doesn't play by the rules. They act according to what's good for them, and their agenda for the world. They don't care about you. They care about controlling the world and their little adventure in the Middle East is step one to that end."
The 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes, the eyes now hidden behind a blindfold, still couldn't believe what she heard. Yes, this administration was ruthless and arrogant. Certainly no one in it would stoop to this. What he's talking about is a crime, perhaps even an impeachable one. No, this can't be.
She heard his footsteps. He was coming closer to her shivering helpless body.
"All we want to know, Valerie, is what you're doing here. As soon as your toady television man revealed you as an agent, your picture went out on the world wide web. Every country now knows what you look like. We only want to know why your agency chose to send you to our country. Why were we so lucky?"
The 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes said nothing. She was still in a state of shock. How could a government compromise its agents like that?
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm a journalist working at ..."
Shock coursed through her body as she felt her left nipple being grabbed. Her tormentor pinched it with all his might, twisting it, mangling it.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"
His fingers let go. She moaned softly as gradually the soarness left her nipple. A minute or so later, she felt his fingertips stroking her left side. The w0-year-old blond woman with the dark blue eyes quivvered and turned her body as far as possible, letting out a little yelp at the feel of his hand.
"Goodness, Valerie. Are you ticklish?
"Let me go! I'm Molly Seymour and I work for the ..."
The man began running his wiggling fingers up and down her left side, from her arm pit to her hip.
"Tshshshshshshshsheeeeeeeeee"
"I'll be damned. You're extremely ticklish. Are you going to tell me why you're here?"
The 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes shook her head, her lips pursed as if to emphasize her unwillingness to talk.
The man paused. He was up to something. What? He began speaking in his native language. From the inflections in his voice the 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes surmised he was talking on a cell phone. He was summoning someone else into the room.
Chapter III -- Let the torture of Molly/Valerie begin
Stay calm, she told herself. Stay calm. Don't give yourself away. Keep cool. You've been trained for situations like this.
"Oh," she said with a slight giggle in her voice. "You have the wrong person. I'm Molly Seymour. I work for ...."
"Valerie," said man she could not see. "It's no use. We know who you are. There is no Molly Seymour. You're no more a journalist than I'm the pope."
Stay calm. You can get through this.
"Please," she said, writhing a little against the straps that held her arms to the wall and her legs securely to the table. "Let me go. You made a mistake. I'm not who you ..."
"Let me tell what happened in your country in those days you were stuck at the hotel," the man said, a hint of anger now rising in his voice. "You're quite a celebrity in America now."
He paused. Fear now overtook the 40-year-old blonde woman. Her throat went dry. Her toes were now like icicles, as cold as her hands from which the blood had long ago drained from being held above her head for so long. She suddenly became conscious of her nakedness, and what this man might do to her trembling creamy flesh to get her to admit that yes, she was an American spy.
"It seems your government is none too happy with your husband," the man said, his voice now softer and almost mocking.
Her husband. A career diplomat. No party affiliation. Just a smart, personable guy who believed in his country. What about him? What has become of him? What is this bastard talking about?
"Your administration is trying to build its case for war with Iraq, Valerie. Your husband has thrown a bit of a roadblock in front of their plans. Wasn't he supposed to make a link between Iraq and some backwater African nation? Wasn't Iraq supposed to be buying ingredients for a nuclear weapon from this nation? Your husband made the mistake of telling the truth, Valerie. He said there was no sale of any such material. That's not what your government wanted to hear."
He paused. She collected herself.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, frustrated that the blindfold across her eyes prevented her from seeing the man who, no doubt, was going to torture her to get what he wanted.
"Some low-level -- how do you Americans say it? -- flunky? Some flunky in the administration leaked your name to a sympathetic journalist. The journalist then announced on television that this traitor is married to a spy. So now America and world knows who and what you are, Valerie."
No way, she thought. Not a chance.
"You're lying," she practically spit at her captor. "No government reveals the identity of its intelligence agents. You know that."
"Ah, Valerie, those were the old rules. This new administration of your doesn't play by the rules. They act according to what's good for them, and their agenda for the world. They don't care about you. They care about controlling the world and their little adventure in the Middle East is step one to that end."
The 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes, the eyes now hidden behind a blindfold, still couldn't believe what she heard. Yes, this administration was ruthless and arrogant. Certainly no one in it would stoop to this. What he's talking about is a crime, perhaps even an impeachable one. No, this can't be.
She heard his footsteps. He was coming closer to her shivering helpless body.
"All we want to know, Valerie, is what you're doing here. As soon as your toady television man revealed you as an agent, your picture went out on the world wide web. Every country now knows what you look like. We only want to know why your agency chose to send you to our country. Why were we so lucky?"
The 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes said nothing. She was still in a state of shock. How could a government compromise its agents like that?
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm a journalist working at ..."
Shock coursed through her body as she felt her left nipple being grabbed. Her tormentor pinched it with all his might, twisting it, mangling it.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"
His fingers let go. She moaned softly as gradually the soarness left her nipple. A minute or so later, she felt his fingertips stroking her left side. The w0-year-old blond woman with the dark blue eyes quivvered and turned her body as far as possible, letting out a little yelp at the feel of his hand.
"Goodness, Valerie. Are you ticklish?
"Let me go! I'm Molly Seymour and I work for the ..."
The man began running his wiggling fingers up and down her left side, from her arm pit to her hip.
"Tshshshshshshshsheeeeeeeeee"
"I'll be damned. You're extremely ticklish. Are you going to tell me why you're here?"
The 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes shook her head, her lips pursed as if to emphasize her unwillingness to talk.
The man paused. He was up to something. What? He began speaking in his native language. From the inflections in his voice the 40-year-old blonde woman with the dark blue eyes surmised he was talking on a cell phone. He was summoning someone else into the room.
Chapter III -- Let the torture of Molly/Valerie begin
