Sleeping With the Enemy

by Adaire, Alexis

  Gorani stopped just inside and spoke quietly to the men. I stood off to the side and surveyed the sparse lobby, which had two plastic chairs, a single door leading to another room, and a stairwell leading upwards. Across the lobby was the entrance to a hallway. The men talked for a minute, then Abdul-Rauf approached me.

  “Gorani will take you up to his office now,” he said. “Afterward, he’ll immediately introduce you to al-Ansar as planned. I’ll wait down here with Qasim.”

  I nodded. Lowering his whisper even further, Abdul-Rauf asked, “You okay?”

  I nodded again and said, “I’ll be back soon,” then walked toward Gorani. He was a short man, only a few inches taller than I was.

  The Syrian smiled again and I felt my stomach churn. “Come with me, please,” he said politely in English and I followed him up the stairs. Every step I took was nerve-wracking, especially when we passed another armed guard on the second floor. Gorani spoke to him, then he nodded and we walked past him down the hall. I followed Gorani into a small, depressing room with twin beds on opposite walls. No sheets or covers, just mattresses. I felt my mind tipping toward panic and tried to breathe slowly and deeply.

  Gorani shut the door behind me. “My name is Malek,” he said in a weaselly voice as he extended his hand.

  “Wendy,” I said, accepting his handshake. His palm was cold and clammy. “May I take this clothing off now?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Gorani replied. He started to help me with the niqāb, then backed away and just watched as I removed it from my head and shook out my hair. I smiled at him, then slipped the abayah off and set it aside, feeling more comfortable in my Western clothes.

  When I saw the nervous look in his eyes, I realized Gorani was intimidated by me. He’d spent hours looking at American porn and now he was face-to-face with a buxom American woman, one he knew was here specifically to have sex with him. No wonder he was scared shitless.

  I took his hands and smiled. Gorani was so unattractive and creepy I wanted to get it over with. I told myself I would do what I had to do, but I was not about to kiss him if I could help it. I stated my terms to ensure he was still willing to follow through.

  “Malek, you are going to introduce me to Abu Khalid al-Ansar?” I asked, trying to sound sexy.

  “Yes, of course,” he answered.

  “Where is he right now?”

  “In his office,” he replied, pointing at the ceiling, “on the third floor.”

  Perfect. Al-Ansar was somewhere on the floor right above me. I took a breath.

  Let’s do this, I told myself.

  “So what do you want to do with me?” I asked Gorani.

  The man seemed stumped by my question, but quickly figured it out. “Sex,” he said. “I want first to see your body.”

  I smiled and began to strip, slipping off my sandals and unbuttoning my shirt. My instinct was to rush, to get naked as fast as possible; the sooner I took care of Gorani’s needs, the sooner I could leave. I knew he expected some sort of show, though, so I took my time. I set the shirt on a chair, then unzipped my jeans and slid them off. Gorani never took his eyes off me, his breathing the only sound in the room. I put my jeans on the chair, then removed my bra and panties, turning to give him a good look at my naked body. I doubted he’d ever seen a naked Western woman before, at least not in person, as he stared as if he were looking at a creature in a zoo.

  My nipples stiffened as Gorani gawked at me. I lifted his didashah, working it up over his waist before he took it from me and removed it, along with the shumaq covering his head. I was surprised to see he was wearing white American-style briefs. He smelled freshly showered and I mused that he had definitely been looking forward to this moment. I took his hands and placed them on my breasts, letting him play with them while I fondled the small bulge in his underwear. Then I dropped to my knees and slid them off, leaving him naked save for his socks and sandals. His small brown cock was already rising, the tip peeking out of his foreskin.

  I stroked him for a minute, then leaned forward and kissed it gently before parting my lips and taking it into my mouth. Gorani moaned softly and responded immediately, his erection growing quickly to its full short length. I smiled at him, then got up and walked to the chair, fishing a condom out of my pants pocket. I’d brought three, just in case, but was hoping one would be sufficient. I knelt again and opened the packet, rolling the lubed latex onto him.

  I lay on one of the mattresses and seductively opened my legs, displaying myself for Gorani’s porn-fantasy pleasure. He climbed on top of me, his face inches from mine as he positioned himself and pushed his way into me. The lubed condom and his lack of size made entrance relatively easy. I didn’t want to look into those eyes so I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled his head down next to mine, whispering, “That feels so good. Fuck me, Malek.” If it was porn he wanted, Wendy the American would give it to him.

  I tried to ignore how horrible the mattress smelled. Any hopes for a premature ejaculation faded as Gorani thrust in and out for a while, pumping away at me. He began to take control of his fantasy, requesting different positions, although nothing terribly exotic: doggy, then me on top. Finally I decided it was time for him to finish. “I want to watch you come, Malek,” I whispered, looking lustily down at him.

  I was surprised by his response, though I suppose I shouldn’t have been.

  “Pearl necklace,” he said, breathing heavily.

  It made perfect sense, as it was such a common porn act, and one he’d probably never get to do with a woman from his own conservative country. I was actually relieved because I knew I could jerk him off to orgasm quickly. Climbing off of him, I told Gorani to stand next to the bed, then knelt before him once more. I removed the condom and tossed it away, then spit in my palm and began stroking his rock-hard little cock.

  I was surprised and grateful at how quickly he got there. He moaned loudly and unloaded onto my tits. I kept stroking until he’d completely emptied himself, then looked up with a smile. Gorani’s eyes told me he was in porn heaven. Great, I thought with satisfaction, now I can pass the message to al-Ansar and go home.

  My smugness was obliterated in an instant when the office door flew open, loudly banging against the wall. A man I recognized as Abu Khalid al-Ansar was halfway across the room before I noticed the pistol in his hand. By the time Gorani turned toward the commotion, the gun was a foot from his head. A sharp crack echoed through the room and the back of Gorani’s head detonated, wet red matter spraying out and spattering across the wall behind him.

  Time stood still as Gorani slumped to the floor, instantly dead, his head a bloody mass. Ears ringing, I screamed and jumped up, my naked body streaked with blood as al-Ansar stood over Gorani’s lifeless form. Chaos broke out as two guards ran into the room, stunned to see a naked white woman with blood dripping down her face and chest.

  Everything was happening at breakneck speed. Al-Ansar pointed at me and barked out orders in Arabic. When the guards tried to grab my arms, I reacted instinctively, the months I’d spent working on escape and evasion skills with Leslie causing my muscles to take over for my stunned brain.

  I swung an arm up, elbowing the guard on my left side as hard as I could in the face and felt his nose crack with the force. Immediately I spun and rammed my knee into the crotch of the second guard and watched him drop to his knees, his gun spilling to the floor. As I reached for it, the first guard grabbed my other arm and jerked me backwards. Twisting around, I clutched his fingers with my other hand, bending them back as far as I could and breaking two of them. Desperate for that gun, I spotted it on the floor and reached for it.

  Then everything went black.

  Twenty-Nine

  My head was pounding and my ears ringing.

  A dull ache throbbed in my skull. Everything was dark and I suddenly felt nauseous.

  I forced an eye open and saw a wall. My cheek was touching a cool vinyl floor. Then my stomach heaved and I vomited before I c
ould control it, coughing and gagging at the bile in my mouth. I heard voices behind me, then arms grabbing me and dragging me across the floor, away from the mess I’d made.

  My consciousness started returning, little by little. I heard Arabic and I sensed immediately that I was in a life-or-death situation. Images of Gorani’s head exploding and the subsequent fight with the guards flashed through my mind and I forced myself to try to focus, to cut through the pain and nausea and the fog in my brain. I realized my hands were behind my back, bound together with a zip tie. My ankles, too. I could hear at least two men in the room behind me.

  I rolled my aching head over and saw Gorani’s lifeless body still on the floor, the wall nearest him a dark red splattered mess. Two armed guards in camo clothes were laughing at me. I was pretty sure one was the man I’d kicked in the nuts, a detail confirmed when he walked to me, leaned over, and spit on my face. They both laughed again, then they picked me up and carried me to the bed that wasn’t covered with Gorani’s brains, laying me on my back. When I felt the stiff mattress against my skin I realized I was still completely naked. My clothes remained on the chair where I’d left them.

  My head was clearing, but the throbbing and nausea were still there. As the fog lifted, it dawned on me that I’d been knocked unconscious during the scuffle, most likely by Abu Khalid al-Ansar, the only man in the room I hadn’t yet incapacitated. As the two guards stared at my body, talking to each other in Arabic and laughing, I started to comprehend what a horrific situation I was in.

  Minutes passed as I lay on the mattress, trying to ignore the physical discomfort I was in and focus on assessing my plight. I figured I was in no immediate danger; if al-Ansar wanted me killed I would be lying on the floor next to Gorani. If he had somehow uncovered Gorani’s little sex-for-access plan and knew I was American, he also knew I would be much more valuable to him as a hostage. That would buy me some time, although I didn’t know how much. I wondered where Abdul-Rauf and Nasry were; they both had to have heard the commotion from upstairs.

  After what seemed like an eternity of lying on that mattress, vulnerable and scared to death, al-Ansar walked into the room. He looked at my body, his gaze moving from between my legs up to my breasts. Walking over, he extended a finger and ran it across my upper chest. I felt it glide down to my nipple, slick and slippery. He lifted the finger to his nose, then made a face and wiped his finger on the mattress. Pointing at Gorani’s body then at my tits, he made a comment to the guards, who both burst out laughing.

  When the laughter died down, al-Ansar muttered something and the two men jumped into action, grabbing Gorani and carrying his naked body out of the room. I saw his eyes, unblinking and dull, and blood dripped steadily from the back of his head, leaving a trail out the door. The nausea returned and I fought to keep from puking again. My head hurt so badly that I knew I’d been hit there, from behind, and likely had a concussion. That meant I had to stay awake.

  Al-Ansar sat in the chair and continued to look me over. I tried to remain emotionless, still fighting the throbbing headache and nausea. After satisfying his curiosity about my body, he looked me in the eyes. His lack of emotion was chilling.

  “CIA?” he asked, startling me because I’d forgotten he spoke English. “Navy Seals?”

  I didn’t answer. Where the fuck was Abdul-Rauf?

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Now you are my prisoner.”

  When the two guards returned, Al-Ansar said, “They will take you to your room now.” He gave orders in Arabic and they picked me up again, one holding my ankles while the other slid his hands under my shoulders. They carried me out of the room, past two other gaping guards, and up the stairs. On the third floor, more guards gawked as I was taken into a room and deposited on another small bed, then they turned and left, shutting and locking the door behind them.

  I managed to sit up and survey the room. There were no windows at all, and only the bed and a single plastic chair in the way of furnishings, plus a doorway through which I could see a toilet. The main door opened again and a guard stepped in with my clothes, setting them on the chair. When Al-Ansar walked in, the guard stood at the door and cocked his rifle, leveling it right at my head. My heart was in my throat, and when I saw a boxcutter in al-Ansar’s hand I imagined the worst.

  “I’m going to untie you now so you can get dressed,” he said.

  I nodded, wanting to cry but forcing myself to hold it inside. Al-Ansar leaned behind me and I felt the zip tie snap, freeing my hands. I brought them forward and rubbed the red lines in my skin as he knelt and repeated the process with my ankles, then stood up and stepped back.

  I stood, feeling even more naked than before. “Thank you,” I said as I looked at the guard’s rifle pointing in my direction. I slipped my panties on, then started to put on my bra. I paused when I got my first real glimpse of the mess on my upper body, then put the bra on anyway because I was tired of being ogled.

  When I reached for my jeans, al-Ansar grabbed my wrist to stop me, then took them and my shirt. Holding them up in front of me, he grinned and said, “Insurance.” He also took the Syrian clothes Nasry had given me, then the guard lowered his gun and they both stepped out, locking the door behind them.

  I waited a few minutes, then walked to the door. There was a vertical glass pane in the door, roughly two feet high and six inches wide, with diagonal wires crossing throughout it. I looked out and saw a single seated guard looking back at me from across the hallway. He returned my gaze with expressionless eyes as I backed away. I sat on the bed, rubbing my sore wrists, then realized I still had blood all over me and headed for the bathroom.

  There was a small shower, a sink with a shiny metal rectangle serving as a mirror, and a toilet. A towel and washcloth sat next to the sink. Nothing stood out as a potential weapon. An opaque glass block window, about one square foot, allowed some sunlight into the room, but couldn’t be opened and would be impossible to shatter without a tool of some kind.

  I gazed at my reflection and barely recognized myself. Blood and unidentified bits spotted my hair and face, and vomit trailed from the side of my mouth. My left shoulder, neck and collarbone, and my breasts were also splattered. I quickly attempted to wash it off, making several passes before realizing I would need a shower to get the job done.

  The bathroom had no door, but I wanted all traces of Gorani off of me immediately. I turned on the water in the shower and stripped down. Relieved to find hot water, I used the sliver of soap I found to clean up, pink rivers running down my body into the drain. As I washed my hair, I discovered a tender lump on the back of my head. When I was done, I toweled off and washed my bra to remove any remnants of gore.

  I left the bra to dry in the bathroom, then sat on the bed and wrapped myself in a sheet while I wracked my brain trying to find a way out of this mess. I realized Abdul-Rauf must be in trouble, too. He and Nasry had been in the lobby when the gunshot rang out and had to have been aware that something was going on. And since I had arrived with them, they had no doubt been apprehended as well — or worse.

  * * *

  Time passed and the sunlight from the bathroom window faded, leaving me in growing darkness. I turned on the overhead light and studied the recessed bulbs, wondering if I could break one and use it to inflict damage on my captors. Then I noticed a guard looking through the door’s window. He had a bandage taped across his nose, splints on two fingers, and a look of pure rage in his eyes. I turned back to the bed and covered myself again, and when I looked up he was gone.

  I was exhausted, but didn’t dare sleep. The door opened and two guards stepped in, one carrying a foil-covered plate and a bottle of water. While one guard aimed his rifle at me, the other set the plate on the bed next to me, then they both stepped out. Although my head still had that dull pain and the nausea hadn’t completely vanished, I realized my stomach was empty when I smelled the food. The plate contained two pieces of soft flatbread, some hummus and a few small sausages. I questi
oned whether to trust it, but realized if my captors wanted to harm me they wouldn’t need to use poison. I also knew I needed to maintain my strength in case an escape opportunity presented itself, so I gingerly choked down about half the food.

  Just as I was finishing, al-Ansar entered the room. I was still topless while my bra dried, so I quickly wrapped the sheet around my body as he moved the chair directly in front of me and took a seat. My senses were all on high alert. This was my real enemy right now, the man in charge of all these other goons.

  “What is your name?” he asked without emotion of any kind.

  “Bridget Jones,” I replied with a British accent.

  “CIA?”

  “MI6,” I said — the name of the British foreign intelligence service. My bottom lip started to quiver and I tried to suppress it.

  Al-Ansar lowered his head. “I’m not stupid,” he said, then looked back at me sternly. “I know you are American.”

  “My name is Bridget Jones,” I said, dropping the accent. “I’m an Army Green Beret working alongside MI6 in Syria.”

  His open hand struck the side of my face so quickly I had no time to react. I tumbled onto my side in the bed, my cheek and temple stinging as the throbbing in my head came back with a vengeance. The sheet fell off, exposing me.

  As I struggled to sit and cover myself again, al-Ansar said, “Qasim Nasry said you are CIA.”

  So they had indeed apprehended the two men. I knew Abdul-Rauf wouldn’t talk, but Nasry had apparently cracked.

  “What did Gorani promise you, Miss Jones?” he asked.

  Then I remembered the message I was supposed to pass to al-Ansar, the offer of financial aid from the U.S. Department of Defense.