Chris was led down the hallway and into another office. This one was much more elaborate than the first. Inside was a mahogany desk with a credenza behind it. Two leather chairs faced the desk. All of the walls contained artwork and there was a fireplace at the far end of the room. In front of the fireplace was a large sofa flanked by other leather chairs. In front of the sofa was a large screen television. Next to the fireplace was a full bar.
The guards roughly placed Chris in one of the chairs facing the desk. Without a word, they turned and departed. Chris did not really even have time to compose her thoughts before the officer from before entered. He was much more pleasant now. "Well, I certainly hope the two of you will decide to cooperate," he intoned. "It will be so much better for everyone."
Chris protested, "Sir, I just do not know what you are talking about. We have done nothing wrong. We are just trying to help people."
The officer sat back in his chair and laughed. "That is a very common story--at first," he replied. "But eventually, you will confess. Everyone does. Until such time, you will be enlisted in our intelligence service as a sex slave." Looking her up and down, he continued, "You can be very useful to us."
Chris was horrified. Looking up at the ceiling, she asked herself, "Can this really be happening? Am I dreaming this?"
Oblivious to her reaction, the officer continued, "There are certain preliminary questions we need to address before you begin your service." Pulling a file folder from a cabinet in the desk, he asked, "First of all, what is your name?"
Chris sighed and replied, "Christine Whitfield."
The exchange continued, "How old are you?"
"23."
"What is your marital status?"
