The Final Veil: Who had kidnapped America's favorite belly dancer?

by Pat Powers

  Chapter 38

  No longer the brave adventure it had once seemed

  Sandy awoke muzzily. As she slowly drifted up to consciousness, she began to realize that her left arm was asleep and she was achy as hell. Also that she couldn't move her arms and legs. She couldn't see when she opened her eyes.

  That realization snapped her wide awake and had her pulling at her bonds. She realized she was no longer tied to the table, but lying on a bed, a hard one. Her hands were tied over her head, her feet were tied together. But she was still wearing a hood and a gag..

  “I see we're awake,” came that same voice from yesterday. “I've got good news for you … your information checked out. No more torment for Melissa, or you.”

  Sandy felt a sharp pang of relief at those words, and a sharp pang of guilt as well. They would not hurt Melissa any more. Or her. But she had betrayed the mission.

  “You'll be even gladder to know that we never did kidnap Melissa,” said the voice. “We just had one of our female cohorts imitate Melissa's voice. Did a great job, too. Say Hi to Sandy, Melissa,” said the voice.

  “Hi,” came Melissa's familiar voice. “You may remember me from such interrogation sessions as yesterday. But I'm not Melissa, I just pretend to be her when we need information from you. Also, I scream pretty good, as I'm sure you'll recall.”

  If Sandy's glares could express the emotional intensity she was feeling, they would have burned right through the hood to singe the traitorous woman who was speaking.

  “Now, here's the deal,” said the voice. “April was not harmed by her captors, and we are not going to harm you. We've got you secured to the bed via chains that will release from a timer. It's a leather bag filled with ice, when it melts sufficiently in about half an hour or so, you'll be able to pull the ring that your hands are tied to down and remove your hood, which will allow you to see the key lying to your right on the bed. You can use the key to free your wrists from the cuffs easily.”

  Sandy felt a surge of hope. They were freeing her?

  “Your car keys, your purse and your cell phone are on the table, the room is pre-paid,” said the voice. “There is also a set of your clothes on the bed beside you. You can get up, get dressed, and get out of here, because your car is parked just outside this room. What you choose to do or say about this is up to you. We think we've covered our tracks very well. And we've not linked you to the kidnapping of April in any way. Unless one of your sisters was at the place where April was kept and ratted you out, you may be safe. Something to think about … which is what I would suggest you do while the ice melts. Farewell, and hopefully, we will never meet again.”

  Sandy heard the sounds of footsteps and then the sound of door closing, then silence. She tugged furiously at her bonds but she was firmly held.

  She knew the voice was right, she had some thinking to do. But she already kind of knew what she was going to do. Her mother had once told her, “In life, you have both bad and good situations and experiences coming at you. Get the bad situations behind you as fast as possible and focus on the good ones … that's the secret to a happy and good life.”

  And Sandy had come to the conclusion that the kidnapping of April was no longer the brave adventure it had once seemed, but was just a bad experience, and if given the chance she intended to put it and everything associated with it, including her own kidnapping, behind her.

  Forty minutes later, when she walked out of the door fully dressed and freed, she still felt the exact same way.

  Chapter 39

  Spike the spooks' guns

  A week later, things were still not back to anything resembling "normal" but no one's life was hanging on the success or failure of my work, so I was a lot more relaxed and happy. And Lady Astra or slave astra as she preferred me to call her, was a large part of that. The only little fly in the ointment for me was the way the case had been broken. The Goreans had kidnapped Wrathbottom. I was sure the Goreans had used means that were no more horrible than necessary, but that still could easily encompass quite a bit of horrible treatment. I had spent plenty of time sweating information out of slimy types during my years with the Atlanta PD, and I'd put them through quite a bit of emotional torment, lied to them, threatened them with the prospect of long jail terms and turned one potential informant against another, but I'd never tortured anyone or felt that I needed to.

  I felt sure he could have sweated April's location out of Wrathbottom without torturing her, given a chance, and it bugged me that I hadn't been given the chance.

  But you couldn't argue with results: April was alive and well -- I'd seen her on television several times, with her lawyer keeping her on a tight leash as far as what she could say about the kidnapping, other than that she was fully recovered and would be dancing publicly again soon.

  And the raid could have gone SO MUCH WORSE. If the women had been awake and armed, it could have erupted into a gunfight with God knows how many people killed. And probably April would have been one of them. Maybe I would have been one of them. I don't think Jeff and his Gorean buddies had considered that downside, but my years on the police force had taught me that for a lot of people, the downside was all too real.

  As much as I could, I let such considerations fade away in my mind. Nobody had been killed, or maimed. That was what counted.

  I was filing one of many, many reports I'd produced for various law enforcement agencies with regard to April's disappearance. Officialdom had many forms for the innocent and unassuming private investigator to fill out in times like this. It was dull work, but I could charge Jeff for it, and Jeff would have gladly paid me $10,000 a form if I'd asked it. I didn't ask it -- I wasn't THAT kind of an investigator, but I did charge for the work, because the only thing that made wading through all the damn paperwork endurable was knowing there were several hundred dollars at the end of most reports.

  As I worked, I was thinking of where I'd take Astra to dinner tonight. I'd been eating a lot more Greek and Mediterranean cooking in the last week than I normally did, as Astra liked to eat at clubs where "her" dancers had gigs, and she liked to tip them well and applaud them. I liked that pretty well, too, especially since Astra was a celebrity at such clubs, with people constantly coming over to say hi and talk with her, but each time they also gave me a good looking-over, too, especially the women.

  All the inspecting of me gave me the impression that I had won some sort of contest without knowing it. I didn't know what I'd done to win it, but I was very glad I had.

  A couple of weeks later, things seemed to be settling down. I hadn't had that much contact with Jeff and April since the rescue. Just a hasty "Thank you" and a warm hug from April during a brief visit a couple of days ago to clear up some loose ends, then it was off to one of her many appointments for interviews, etc., with journalists and cops and so forth. Plus, she was dancing again, just as beautifully as before, though there was something subtly different in the dances I'd seen a time or two, some note that hadn't been there before. I probably wouldn't have noticed it if it weren't for all the belly dancing I'd been watching of late.

  When they entered the room I tried to show them to their chairs but before I could April prostrated herself on the floor, her arms extended toward me, her face on the floor.

  "Master, if a girl may speak," said April.

  "Of course," I said. I didn't bother telling April I was "not a Gorean yadda yadda yadda" because my experiences with astra had thoroughly convinced me that Gorean women enjoyed submissive behavior, and there was really no point in denying them their little pleasures. Or the big ones.

  "This slave humbly thanks you from the bottom of her heart for your brave and skillful search for her,” said April. “Master Jeff has told me about all the clues you found, and how fast you found them, and that you were the one who save her from being killed by the mole woman. Thank you for that. This slave knows she would not be alive if not for you, and although her heart belongs to Master Jeff, this slave would lik
e you to know that she absolutely worships you and adores you as the capable and powerful man you are."

  "Well, thank you, April," I said. "I was happy to be able to help. Now, in the interests of communicating, I suggest you break position and have a seat in the chair in front of my desk."

  Another thing I had learned -- if you want a slave/submissive to do something, tell them to do it, don't ask them. They'll do it, unless there's some good reason not to, in which case you'd hear, "May a girl speak?" which I now understood to mean, "ATTENTION!"

  "Yes, master," April said, rising smoothly and sliding into the seat I had indicated. "Sliding" was the right word, too, because April had incredible grace. She did not move from place to place, she flowed from place to place.

  Jeff took the chair next to her and I settled down at my desk and looked at them. They clearly had Something on their minds, this wasn't just dotting i's and crossing t's.

  "So what's up?" I asked.

  "Did you hear about the mole?" Jeff asked.

  "Yes I did," I said. "Disappeared from custody at some point in the last week. Nobody can say exactly when or why or how. But it wasn't an escape."

  "So, what do you think it was?" asked Jeff.

  "Obviously, someone from the agency decided to bail her out," I said. "I've noticed her name, or rather, the name she was using, has disappeared from all the official reports of the incident as well. From what I've heard through the grapevine, none of the women in the house have mentioned any CIA moles. I doubt any of them knew of any. The mole would have been working in secret, as one of them."

  "That's what has us worried," said Jeff. "If the CIA people who were behind this operation get away with it scot-free, what's to stop them from going after April again?"

  "Well, the fact that it was a horrible failure, for one thing," I said. "For another, we don't KNOW that they got away with it scot free. The person who rescued the mole from custody may not have been one of those in on the plot. If so, the mole is probably undergoing a long and painful debriefing in some out-of-the-way CIA facility, and from what I've heard, the CIA can be very aggressive toward one of their own when they think they've been conducting unauthorized operations."

  "So you still think it was an unauthorized mission?" asked Jeff.

  "I just can't see the CIA going for something like this," I said. "It violates their charter all to hell and back, and it's risky as hell, and it's got zilch to do with foreign policy or terrorism. You hear about the CIA doing crazy things like the Bay of Pigs and those secret prisons in Europe when they have a President all hot for it, but the present administration doesn't really care about sexual morality, at least, it's not a big initiative of theirs. I just can't see any way the CIA brass would approve of kidnapping April absent some hard evidence she's involved with terrorism, and even then, I don't see a kidnapping. If we had some kind of social conservative president with a huge fixation on sex and morality pushing for it, maybe. But we don't, so this was definitely a cowboy op."

  "OK, even if it's cowboy op, could the cowboys responsible still want to harm April?" asked Jeff.

  "Sure, but I really don't think their goal is to hurt April," I said. "They're obviously a group of social/religious conservatives and feminists who both targeted April for different reasons -- the conservatives, because she's sexy and assertive, and the feminists because she's sexy and submissive. At least, that's the way they see it. And the thing is, there are PLENTY of other targets for them to go after, I mean, there must be half a dozen young female pop singers who dance in April's style now and whose songs go right past suggestive. Not to mention the usual assortment of starlets who expose themselves and behave in all sorts of wild ways every time they feel public attention for them is beginning to flag. Oh, there are other targets, and other methods than kidnapping, and after the huge fiasco this turned out to be for them, they'll want to try those other targets and other ways. But not knowing exactly who's behind it, I can't be absolutely sure of that."

  "Yeah, that's why we're uneasy," said Jeff. "But if the person who rescued the mole is not in on the plot, I'm guessing the plotters will be found out and ... what's that phrase you used? ... “rolled up” soon, if they haven't been rolled up already."

  "Well, it'd be nice to think so, wouldn't it?" I said, "but you know, there's a possibility that the mole wasn't the only CIA op in on the plot, and that the person who rescued her and got the official records wiped was also in on the plot and was trying to clean up any evidence before it led to them. Which they've done rather nicely."

  "So, what can we do?" Jeff asked. "April and I would like some assurance that this won't happen again."

  "Oh, the odds are WAAAAYY against it ever happening again," I said. "But you know, I can easily spike the spooks' guns at this point, which, frankly, would be a good thing to do on general principles."

  "How?" asked Jeff.

  And I explained how I could fix things.

  "Would you?" April asked, and the eagerness in her voice betrayed that this visit was clearly her idea. Probably brought about by her memories of being abducted, which I sympathized with. "I mean, it's a lot to ask considering all that you've already done for us, but I'd really sleep a lot better knowing that you'd taken care of it."

  "I'll be glad to," I said.

  Chapter 40

  a whole new shitstorm of publicity

  That's how I found myself in Langley, Virginia, sitting in an interrogation room looking at the calm face of a CIA counterintelligence agent, Sam Detmars, spilling everything I'd learned about the CIA involvement in the April Dancer kidnapping.

  "So, you're basing all your theories about CIA involvement on the unauthorized use of an unknown encryption system which you believe to be a proprietary CIA code,” said Detmars.

  "Well, there's also the little matter of the way that mole was whisked out of the pokey down in Tennessee and all records of her vanished," I said. "It's hard to think of very many other agencies that could accomplish something like that."

  "Still, this is hardly convincing," said Detmars.

  "I know that," I said. "And although I know you can't acknowledge it, I know that Greyman9 was used, and I know that it's a CIA code, and that's damning evidence. And anyway, I'm not asking you to take me on faith -- you'd be a piss-poor excuse for a counterintel agent if you did that. But I do figure you'd want to know if there was a rogue operative or group running unauthorized operations as dangerous and stupid as this one using CIA resources."

  "We would indeed if such existed," said Detmars, "but pending an investigation, we can't comment on whether it might exist or not. Nor can we say whether or not we will launch an investigation."

  "I understand," I said. "We're not looking to embarrass the CIA or cause any problems. Notice we didn't mention the mole when we talked to the police. We are telling you about it because we figure you are the right people to tell. We understand that you can't tell us anything officially, and we don't expect you to tell us anything ... officially."

  Agent Detmars nodded and grinned.

  "Fine, then," said Detmars. "I appreciate your candor. I'll take this information you've provided us, and will give it consideration. More than that I cannot promise."

  As I left the office, I had no idea whether or not I'd ever hear of the results of Detmars' investigation, but I was sure there would be an investigation.

  My next visit was to New York, where Mopus Diem kept their national offices. I wanted no more passes at April from them.

  Much hassling by phone a few days ago had gotten me an appointment with Royal Standard Bearer Charles Cavendish, the highest echelon member willing to profane himself by discussing April's kidnapping with me. We met in conference room decorated tastefully with religious stuff, which I didn't know a lot about, but you could just tell that these people believed in God and had money, or at least that they wanted you to think so.

  “I don't expect you to acknowledge or agree with anything I am about to say, Mr. Cavend
ish," I said. "I am just going to say what I have to say and hope you understand. Right now the media and the cops are going after you pretty hard because some of the folks who were holding April in the house at the Womyn's Festival were Mopus Diem members. But they haven't been going at you as hard and heavy as they might be, if they knew what I know, which is that one of your top dogs was a ringleader, if not THE ringleader, why, I believe they'd be going at you even heavier."

  "You are wrong," said Cavendish.

  "No, I'm right," I responded, "and I think you know it. Even if you don't, the message from me is the same: I don't really care if the person responsible here is caught and punished. I just don't want you people making any more runs after April. The price of my continued silence is no more attacks on April, of any kind."

  "We never ..." said Cavendish.

  "Right," I responded, cutting her off. "You never. You wouldn't. You couldn't. You didn't. But the fact is, you did. And if you do it again, and by that I mean interfere in the life of April Dancer in any way, I'm going to bring a whole new shitstorm of publicity down on you. And I've got some dead man's triggers set, so attacks on me will be singularly unproductive, from your point of view. Ask one of your people what a dead man's trigger is, or Google it or whatever, if you don't believe me. Good day."

  With those words, I left. I had no illusions about getting any agreement or admission out of Cavendish. I'd just wanted to use him as an information channel for those who needed to hear my message.

  The flight back to Atlanta had me back home by 2 pm even with all the usual security delays, and the traffic in Atlanta was jammed. I had one last chore to do. I went to the other end of the pipe. Once again I drove into northern Roswell, through the winding road in the woods to the estate of Furnsome.

  I had called ahead -- with a person like Furnsome, you always call ahead, because the odds of her being there for you is quite low unless you do so, and sometimes even if you do so. But Furnsome wanted to see me, apparently, or more likely wanted to know what I was up to.