Irresistible

by Andrew J. Peters

  “Faraj, how old are you?”

  His companion glanced up at him with a lachrymose face. “I make twenty-one years in December month.”

  Cal fixed in on him. It was time for a gay-to-gay chat. “You’re really young. Do you do this pulling-out-your-junk thing with strangers a lot?”

  “Why you not like me? You stamp on my heart like American imperialist army.”

  “Faraj, I’m taken,” Cal said. “And even if I wasn’t, that’s no way to go about finding a boyfriend. You know nothing about me. I could be some kind of serial killer. Not to mention, you could get an STD or even AIDS.”

  “No one can know my secret passion,” Faraj said, with a steady eye on Cal. “This is forbidden in my country. My life is ruined when people speak of it.”

  Cal made a gesture, sealing his lips. “I won’t say a word. That’s got to be a huge burden for you, though. Things are really strict in the Sultanate, huh? I thought, when I saw all the wine in the cargo hold, maybe your people were more westernized. Isn’t alcohol forbidden by Islamic law?”

  “The cargo is property of His Majesty King Abdullah bin Salib Al-Moghadam,” Faraj said. “Allah permits him special indulgence in private residence.”

  This sounded a bit hypocritical to Cal, but he kept that thought to himself, not wanting to be disrespectful. Instead, he asked, “Faraj, the officers told me I’ll be brought before the king. What do you think will happen to me?”

  “His Majesty King Abdullah bin Salib Al-Moghadam is Supreme Leader of the Faithful. He alone decides justice for criminals.”

  “But I’ve done nothing wrong,” Cal said. “I was fleeing for my life, and I ended up on board by mistake. I guess I should start thinking about defending myself. Have you ever met the king?”

  “He is my father.”

  Cal’s eyes bugged. “Really?”

  “The king makes twenty-nine sons with five wives. I am ninth. My mother is third wife.”

  “Wow. That’s amazing. I thought I had a big family. So, what’s your father like?”

  “For eighteenth birthday, he give me eighty lashes for eating cake before my older brothers eat.”

  “Jesus… That’s…seriously effed up. I guess it wouldn’t help then to ask you to put in a good word for me.”

  “The king must always be brutal tyrant. He is one true sovereign of the Sultanate. Praise Allah.” Faraj gave Cal a musing look. “For you, maybe he will cut off hand or foot.”

  “That’s sounds terrible. Does he choose which one, or do I? How would I even decide?”

  “I pray for you,” Faraj said. He glanced at his watch. “In fact, it is time for Asr prayer.” He stood. “Now I put you back in cell.”

  Cal got up. “Thanks again for the food.”

  Faraj glanced at Cal confidentially. “After prayers, I go to bathroom stall where I abuse myself with hand in thinking of you defiling my virgin buttocks.”

  “Oh! Well. Gosh.” Cal’s glance drifted away. Boy, the little guy was really open about his habits. Cal stepped into his cell and sat on the cot while the door clanged shut. He looked at his hands and feet, wondering what it would be like to live as an amputee.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  IT WAS THE most hellish night of Brendan’s life. After he and Ahmed had their hands bound behind their backs, the Arab pirates turned them over, grabbing their wallets and passports, Ahmed’s gold link necklace, Brendan’s European wristwatch, and his platinum engagement band. They shoved the two men down to the deck with a rifle pointed at their heads, while the world rocked from the roiling sea, and rain beat down on them. Two others dragged along Captain Wes, who was hunched over himself, wincing, with a bleeding gunshot to his shoulder. Brendan glimpsed pirates scouring the yacht for anything of worth they could steal. Then, a team of head-scarved raiders pulled and wrangled the three of them from the yacht to their commercial long-liner.

  Brendan considered many times he might die, whether falling overboard with his hands bound while the tethered vessels creased apart amid the storm, or from being strangled by the pirates’ rough handling. Eventually, they wrestled him, Ahmed, and Wes to the metal deck of their ship. They were harassed into the cabin where they were blindfolded and gagged and shoved into some sort of locker with very thin air.

  Brendan tucked his knees into his chest while he lay jumbled with the guys. Nearest, Ahmed’s frightened breaths snorted and whistled near his ear. Wes groaned, which was a good sign, though with their mouths choked, he couldn’t answer questions about how he was doing. Brendan tried to plead for medical help crying out against whatever rag the criminals had muzzled him with. No one answered. He couldn’t even tell if anyone was in the vicinity of their lockup.

  His head spun and his stomach wrenched while the boat rocked back and forth for an interminable span of time. He fought to get into an upright position, worried about choking on his own vomit. Finally, the vessel’s engine churned into higher gear, and that seasick movement gave way to bumpy progress over the storm-tossed sea. They must have released the yacht. Celebratory cheers hailed from the deck. They were off to claim spoils elsewhere, or who knew what?

  From the kidnapping ordeal, his body throbbed in pain in many places. He could feel blood oozing from his temple. He’d landed headfirst on the deck when the pirates threw him aboard. Brendan grasped onto the hope they’d have been killed if the raiders intended to do away with them. And if the bastards wanted ransom, he could pray his grandfather would arrange to pay a hefty sum to release them.

  After drifting in and out of a shallow sleep for what seemed like a never-ending night, he hearkened to the sound of the boat being brought to port. The engine droned down low and sputtered off. Men scrambled around the deck, calling to one another, hitching lines. A heavy footfall traveled toward the locker, and the door squeaked open. Ahmed’s body trembled against his. Hands yanked the two of them up to their feet. Arabic curses lashed at them, and Brendan was wrangled out of the locker into fresher air.

  They pushed him and Ahmed through the cabin, out to the sunny warmth of the deck, and onto the sturdy surface of a wooden pier. He was wrestled along on a blind, stumbling path, down the pier, across a paved road, up a gravel footpath, and into a damp house that smelled of mildew. Ahmed’s gasps and steps traveled behind him, providing a slim measure of reassurance that at least Brendan wasn’t facing the next horror alone. Into a backroom of the house, he was shoved down to a seat on a hard, wooden bench. Ahmed’s body came slamming down next to his.

  Their captors ungagged Ahmed, and hyped-up demands and accusations in Arabic assaulted him. The first officer’s voice was brittle and pleading, making Brendan sink deeper into terror. He winced from the expectation of being beaten or shot. Maybe it was less messy for their captors to do it now they were on land, at some headquarters of their criminal operations. Maybe they had taken them away while others were putting Wes out of his misery.

  A man stepped around him and hands roughly pulled out his gag and unknotted his blindfold. Indoor lighting throbbed and faded in Brendan’s oxygen-deprived vision. He blurrily took in he was in a cramped room, some compartment of a seaside cabin. A single window, opaque from grime and the salty sea air, glowed with daylight. Three men lorded over him and Ahmed, including the Arab tough with the rifle. They untangled Ahmed’s blindfold, and the two men looked at one another fearfully. Ahmed’s face was ashy and clammy. They had both sweated through their shirts.

  One of their captors stared at Brendan with a strange fascination. He wore a black keffiyeh like the others, but his military fatigues were dry and less worn. He must not have been aboard the pirate vessel. Brendan guessed he had a role of authority, though he looked no older than the others in his well-groomed black moustache and beard—maybe in his early thirties.

  “Brendan Thackeray-Prentiss.” The man’s accent was faint and more British than Arab. “American millionaire,” he said, with a wry grin. “How fortuitous that you crossed paths with one of my ships.”<
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  Brendan stared at the young criminal ringleader. “What do you want from us?”

  The mercenary didn’t answer him. His bearing was amiable, but like a schoolyard bully, that seemed to be only because he had the upper hand. How much information had he retrieved about Brendan since his thieves had stolen his passport?

  “What were you doing in the Icarian Sea in the middle of a storm?”

  “We were looking for my husband.” Brendan’s voice cracked, wrought with both his fear and his indignity. “The Greek Navy found his lifeboat. He escaped from a wreck. We thought we might find him, or his body, in the sea.”

  The man looked to his companions, hinting mildly at his disappointment with them. “I had heard something of this. We received radio dispatches on the disappearance of an American believed to be held by the Romanian mafia.” His gaze held Brendan’s, strangely kind, no doubt disguising other motives. “I am sorry about your husband. We are not barbarians. Or terrorists. If my men had known, we could have avoided this unpleasant business altogether.”

  “They shot our captain,” Brendan spat at him angrily.

  His tormentor stepped to one side, portraying contemplation. “A regrettable accident. This is the price of raising funds for our righteous cause. Your family operates an international corporation. I suspect you understand the inevitability of collateral damage.”

  That wasn’t a fair comparison, but Brendan thought better of arguing the point.

  Taking in Brendan’s distress, the fellow added in a semblance of brotherly compassion, “We have a medic tending to your captain as we speak. His injury is not extreme. I assure you he will be fine.”

  Brendan had no idea what to believe. Though he was well aware he had no leverage to confirm that Wes was being treated. “What’s this all about? Your ‘righteous cause?’” he asked.

  “We are the New Arab Democracy League,” the man said. “We stand for the people oppressed by King Abdullah bin Salib Al-Moghadam’s regime. Our mission is to depose the tyrant and bring democracy to the people.”

  His accomplices stood straighter with a salute and an oath in Arabic.

  Freedom fighters? Brendan didn’t know what to make of the pirates who had attacked his yacht, but the man who spoke for them was more refined than he would have pictured for a leader of a militant group. He spoke in fluent, foreign-schooled English, and his hands were tidily manicured, hardly those of a soldier.

  Brendan knew something of Middle Eastern politics. He’d met the queen of Jordan and members of the Saudi royal family at charity events. The name Al-Moghadam did not register to him.

  “What king are you talking about?” he asked.

  “I would not expect you to be familiar with him,” the man said. “He is not a spectacle of the tabloids like the House of Saud in Saudi Arabia and the House of Sabah in Kuwait, though like those other families, his political and economic ties to your country run deep. And so it has been easy enough for your politicians and your media to turn a blind eye to his crimes against his people.”

  He gestured to his unarmed companion while the rifleman stood at attention. The man left the room and returned with a bottle of water. He twisted off its cap and brought it to Brendan’s lips, tipping it back for a merciful, quenching drink, and then he fed the water to Ahmed.

  The leader’s gaze returned to Brendan. “Equally, we have not enjoyed the same international profile of our neighbors, though our history of sovereignty predates the modern Arab states. We are an island nation off the coast of the southern Arabian Peninsula in the Arabian Sea. The Sultanate of Maritime Kindah. We have maintained our independence all the way back to the Ottoman Empire.” His expression hardened. “And the dynasty of Al-Moghadam has maintained its greed throughout the centuries. Offshore oil wells, shark fishing, tax-free banking for the foreign wealthy—all exploited by the House of Al-Moghadam to preserve its serfdom.”

  Revitalized from his drink, Brendan ventured to speak more boldly. “So you’re financing a rebellion by pirating boats on the Aegean Sea? Seems like a desperate strategy, but that’s your business, not ours. What’s your plan now? Extort money from my family? I can make a call if that’s what you want. But Ahmed here, and Wes, why don’t you just let them go?”

  The rebel leader smiled, brandishing his perfectly straight and perfectly white teeth. “Mr. Thackeray-Prentiss, with your Ivy League education, I would think you would be a clever enough man to understand that ransom is an unpredictable venture. Besides, we have no need of your family’s money. My ship was returning from the Black Sea with everything we require to accomplish the insurrection.” He passed a disgruntled glance at his rifleman. “If my men had not been so paranoid as to imagine your ship was a military vessel monitoring their course, they would have left you to go about your business. Sadly, by the time they could confirm they were intercepting a private yacht, their mercenary instincts overtook them. Your yacht returned meager spoils. Perhaps sufficient to bribe the Egyptian military at the Suez Canal, but not much else.”

  “So you’ll release us then?”

  A taunting grin came back at Brendan. The young revolutionary translated in Arabic to his companions, and the two men laughed.

  “We could hold you and release you at a proper time,” he said in a supposing tone. “We have safe houses across the Arabian peninsula. When the revolution is accomplished, we would have no need to keep you prisoner. You could be sent out to the desert to find your way back home.”

  Brendan remembered something. “We radioed the Greek Navy before our ship was attacked. They’ll notify the U.S. military. They’ve already been called into the region to help search for my husband. They’re probably tracking your progress as we speak.”

  His captor sneered at him. “You have the arrogance to threaten me, Mr. Thackeray-Prentiss? You overestimate your own importance, and the capability of your American friends. It will take weeks, perhaps months, for the United States to organize a reconnaissance mission. Their resources are devoted to the faraway Persian Gulf and Iraq and Afghanistan. By the time they mobilize resources on your behalf, our ship will have vanished. More importantly, the Sultanate of Maritime Kindah will be liberated.”

  Brendan imagined he spoke the truth. Grandad was well connected, but surely Brendan was small fry among U.S. military concerns in the Middle East. He was trapped, unable to search for Cal. His captivity could go on for weeks. If Cal’s body was found, he wouldn’t even be able to see him and pay his last respects. It was so cruel, so unnecessary. Was there any point in pleading for the man’s sympathy? It was the only thing Brendan could do.

  “We won’t interfere with your revolution,” Brendan said. “Can’t you release us and go on your way? Holding us will only slow you down.” A swoon of emotion made his eyes tear up. He swallowed it down and forced his gaze at his captor. “I need to find my husband. Please. You have to understand that.”

  “Release you? On your word of honor you won’t inform international authorities of anything you heard?” He looked down at Brendan. “Mr. Thackeray-Prentiss, I am afraid I am not that stupid. But as I told you, we are not barbarians. I will offer you a choice. We can imprison you in a safe house until our mission is accomplished, or you can join us.”

  “Join you?”

  “Yes.” The rebel leader stepped back and massaged his well-trimmed, bearded chin. “Do not look upon me with such disgust from the suggestion. It seems that fate has entwined our paths with all of its ironic mystery. We are destined to liberate the people of the Sultanate of Maritime Kindah, which is precisely the location where you will find your husband. An operative in His Majesty’s Navy has reported to us Mr. Callisthenes Panagopoulos is being held prisoner aboard a cruiser en route to the capital city of Abbas Barundi.”

  FOR SOME TIME, Brendan could not utter a word while his desperation to believe and a wave of prudent doubt fought inside him. He bowed his head and clenched his eyes shut, the only form of privacy the circumstances allowed. Two men
rustled Ahmed out of the room. Brendan opened his eyes to see what was going on. They closed the door behind them, and he was alone with the mysterious captain of their party. The smooth fellow said nothing, though Brendan perceived a mild air of amusement in his face.

  “You can’t be fucking with me.”

  “I understand this is hard for you to believe.” He brought out a smart phone, tapped open one of its apps, and scrolled through some things. Then he brought the small screen in front of Brendan at eye level.

  The photo was slightly blurred and taken from some distance, but he recognized Cal’s side profile, unshaven for days, and his thick, wavy blond hair. He was wearing a striped jumpsuit. His head was downcast. It looked like he was being escorted through some below-deck corridor of a military vessel. Tears welled in Brendan’s eyes. His captor swiped to a second photo taken at a closer range. Half of Cal’s face was disguised, but it was unmistakably the man Brendan loved with all his heart. Reflexively, he tried to grasp the phone in his own hands, to bring Cal’s image nearer. A moan escaped his throat. He couldn’t move his arms from behind his back.

  Brendan’s voice was hoarse and strained. “When were these taken?”

  “Three hours ago. Upon the Abbas Barundi as it approached the Suez Canal.”

  “How?”

  “How did Mr. Panagopoulos come to be taken into custody?”

  Brendan nodded vigorously.

  “Our operative reports he was discovered as a stowaway. A remarkable story, if it can be believed. Our spy is a junior officer with limited information. The cruiser was on a routine maneuver in the Aegean Sea to assist the Turkish military with the surveillance of Syrian refugees. They made port in Samos to receive a shipment for the king. It was only half a day before your yacht encountered our ship returning from the Black Sea. That appears to be the location where Mr. Panagopoulos came aboard. He was discovered by my operative the next morning. The navy commander seems to be keeping him quite comfortable in the brig.”