Twenty Three

* * * * *

1) This story includes broad caricatures of Roman Catholicism, Islam, and Middle-Eastern cultures. It involves themes of impregnation. It is also, of course, a non-consent scenario. So if any of these characteristics are likely to offend or irritate you, please choose a different story that is more to your liking.

2) All characters are over the age of 18.

3) This work is sheer fantasy in all respects, and is intended for the purposes of erotic entertainment only. In real life it is incumbent on all of us to ensure consent in any situation, and to show respect and empathy to those around us—not just with regard to sex, but in every aspect of life.

* * * * *

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN 8:00 A.M.

— AND 7:00 A.M. ON THE SUBSEQUENT DAY

* * * * *

Agnes Becker spoke into the secure-line with hoarse urgency, her face set in a determined scowl. "You're not listening to me, Geoffrey. You need to pull the trigger on this—now! I've sent you the document scans. You already have the intercepted calls and emails. Your analysts and linguists can look them over to their hearts' content, and they'll tell you the same thing I am: this intel is rock solid, and the threat is very real. But you know it'll take weeks for your team to do all that vetting. We're looking at a timeframe of less than a day. We don't have the luxury of waiting—we've got to take action!"

Her boss's condescension was palpable. "Like I said before, Aggs—you're doing great work. But you need to back off, and let the process play out. You know how many 'credible threats' the agency gets every month. We can't do an all-hands-on-deck mobilization on one agent's say-so. Everything has to run through channels... So: keep doing what you're doing. Work your contacts. Update me if you get anything actionable. And never forget, this job is a marathon, not a sprint."

She hung up the receiver with a bang, and let out a low snarl of frustration: "

Fucking

DC desk-jockeys with their

fucking

platitudes!"

(Agnes had cleansed herself of many sinful habits over the years, but profanity was one she'd never managed to shake.)

Although she was exasperated, she wasn't really surprised the section chief had blown her off. First off, she was inexperienced—only a few years out of Quantico, and low on the totem pole at the agency. And second, this posting was seen as a backwater. Harbalistan was a small country; and the petty royals who ruled it were happy to comply with America's demands (for a cut of the development money, of course). The place had a scattering of Islamic radicals, but they'd never produced any serious terror threats. In short, it was an assignment no field agent wanted, and no one at Langley expected to be of any importance.

It was different for Agnes, though, because she was on a mission from God.

Oh, she hadn't

always

been on a mission. Into her early 20s, she had drifted aimlessly—washing out of college, dabbling with a series of loser boyfriends, and never believing in much. But when she'd found Catholicism, everything had changed. She'd embraced the faith with the puritanical fervor of a convert, and gravitated toward its conservative, militant fringe. For a time, she'd focused on her personal spirituality: repurifying herself and dedicating herself to doing the Lord's bidding. Gradually, though, she'd realized that God had a special plan in mind for her—to become a guardian of her country, and of the Christian heritage that it stood for.

With His help and guidance, she'd gone back to school, mastering Arabic and earning a degree in Islamic Studies at Harvard (know thy enemy...). Then the CIA academy. At every step she received top marks; and by the end she had no doubt she'd be good at human intelligence work. The Lord had equipped her faithfully for her mission, and she trusted that her posting to Harbalistan was just another part of His grand design.

Almost as soon as Agnes's feet hit the tarmac at Yasin Fazil International Airport, she began to understand why God had sent her there. Her sharp nose was able to detect the faint whiff of anti-American hatred, and Islamic extremism. Over time, she built a network of informants, and identified mullahs and clan leaders to be surveilled. Her progress was painfully slow, but she kept plugging away, and eventually started piecing together the true nature of the threat. Her intel suggested that a group of Harbali jihadis had gotten their hands on a batch of North Korean uranium, and planned to detonate a dirty-bomb in a major US city. This, she felt sure, was the demon that God had sent her to slay.

Maddeningly, Agnes's superiors in DC had refused to take her warnings seriously. From their perspective, she was just another over-enthusiastic greenhorn, trying to turn a second-rate posting into ground-zero for the global war on terror. And besides (they were quick to point out), she still didn't have anything really definitive to show them. Her evidence remained circumstantial at best.

* * * * *

Then, yesterday evening, Agnes had hit paydirt. One of her tribal contacts had passed her some stolen document scans, in exchange for a $50 payout. He didn't know what was in the images, and they'd traveled through so many hands that he couldn't tell her where they originated. But he swore these documents were linked to the jihadis she was after.

At the time, she'd taken his assurances with a grain of salt—too many promising leads had already turned out to be garbage for her to get her hopes up. But this morning, when she had started translating, her heart began to race with excitement. It was a data trove beyond her wildest expectations: the documents in her hands contained the master plan for the attack! They outlined everything in systematic detail—describing the operation so clearly that even her boss Geoffrey would be able to grasp it.

Now, admittedly, there were a few infuriating gaps. For one thing, the five main conspirators were given code names, so there was no identifiable information to go on. For another, the plan didn't specify the detonation site. She could tell it was in the Pacific timezone; but that still left her with an impossibly long list of potential targets—population centers, technology hubs, military bases, reservoirs, sports arenas, national parks... ground-zero could be just about anywhere.

One thing the plan did provide, however, was a timetable—and her eyes bugged out when she saw the dates and times specified. The attack was scheduled for—gulp—

today

. Even factoring in the time difference, they had less than twenty-four hours before the bomb detonated!

As she came to grips with this ominous deadline, the bottom seemed to drop out of Agnes's stomach, and she broke out in a cold sweat. Up to this point, she'd believed she still had weeks or months to thwart the terrorists. Now it turned out she was teetering right on the brink of botching her mission. If that happened, then the deaths of thousands of innocent, God-fearing Americans would lie on her conscience—tragic victims of her failure and inadequacy.

For a moment, she was paralyzed by the shock of it. Lord, she prayed silently, have I failed You? Please forgive me... Please help me make it right...

With an effort, though, Agnes pulled herself together. She had her faith—and she had her training and self-discipline as well. In this moment of crisis, she would need to lean on all three. She understood, intellectually, that panic and self-doubt would serve neither her, nor her divine purpose. They would only get in her way. So, she shoved them out of her mind and forced herself to focus on the task at hand.

Grimly, she rechecked the figures carefully. Then she started a countdown timer on her wristwatch.

23:00:00

hours. That was how long she had until the bomb went off.

* * * * *

Recalling her lessons at Quantico, she knew that before doing anything else, she needed to confirm the new intel was genuine. So, she went back to the beginning, and combed through all the documents again, carefully and methodically, looking for any discrepancies, flaws, or mistranslations.

Next, she assessed their authenticity with cool detachment. First off, the materials just looked right. If these were forgeries, they were exquisite. Second, every detail matched the previous reports she had received. Everything cross-checked. Third, she had faith in her informant. And finally, a good agent listens to their gut—and hers was screaming that this was the real deal.

It was only then that Agnes had put in the call to her section chief, Geoffrey Cartwright—feeling sure that with this new data she could finally get him to see sense...

...But of course, as you already know, it didn't work out that way. She had tried, calmly and rationally, to impress the gravity of the situation on her boss. She'd walked him through the cold, hard facts contained in the documents, spelling everything out for him as if he were a little child. But, Geoffrey was in thrall to procedure. He needed time to vet the materials, time to brief the directorate, time to formulate a response. All time they didn't have. And then, as the piece-de-resistance, he trotted out 'a marathon, not a sprint'—God, it made her want to barf!

Ok, he was a useless excuse for a man. Now, though, Agnes needed to let go of her frustration with Geoffrey. Or rather, she needed to bottle up that rage and aggravation and put it to use—channel it into action. She'd done everything she could to mobilize an agency-level response, and it hadn't worked. But the clock hadn't run out yet, and the game wasn't over. If she could figure out the missing details—who, and where—then even an hour's notice might still be enough time to thwart the attack. So long as American lives might be saved, it was her duty to leave no stone unturned, and no effort spared.

She glanced at her wristwatch.

20:57:37

...

20:57:36

...

20:57:35

...

Somehow, some way, she had to track down the necessary intel, and relay it back to authorities in the US, while there was still time for them to take action. She just

had

to. Once the countdown reached zero, it would be too late.

* * * * *

Agnes spent the rest of the morning working the phones, rapidly and efficiently. One by one, she reached out to all her contacts—wheedling, and bullying, and trying to call in favors. She dispensed with the usual niceties and protocols; there simply wasn't time to do things the right way. Instead, she bent all her efforts to trying to acquire a lead—any lead—fast.

At first, she'd been absurdly confident that something would turn up. Gradually, though, as the hours passed and the list of names dwindled, her positivity faded. By the time noon approached, she knew she only had one card left to play: Iskander Ali Amin.

Amin was Agnes's highest profile informant, a deputy defense minister for Harbalistan. The man felt no loyalty to the ruling regime, and she had leveraged his greed to get him to fork over some low-grade intel. Still, she'd only been cultivating him for a few months, and didn't really have her hooks into him properly yet. Contacting him now was a real long-shot; it was quite possible she would burn him as an asset for nothing. But she was at the end of her rope—there was no point holding anything back now.

She called his government office, and sweet-talked her way past the secretary. Fearing he might be bugged, she kept Amin from saying anything when he came on the line. "I need to see you—

now

. Usual place. Don't keep me waiting." She hung up, hoping desperately that he'd show.

* * * * *

Forty-five minutes later, she was at the apartment safe-house, watching the seconds tick away on her wrist, trying to empty her mind. From the window, she saw a black Mercedes slowly circle the block and enter the building's parking garage. She bit her nails as she waited. At last, the door opened, and Iskander Ali treaded warily inside.

Amin was a tall man—slightly overweight, but carrying it well. He wore an expensive Savile-Row business suit, and had a full head of jet-black hair. His face was a plump oval, and normally sported a jovial smile. Not today, though. Instead, he barked at Agnes (his deep bass voice and excellent English complemented by a British public-school accent). "What the bloody hell was that?! You can't just ring me at the defense ministry! If they get wind I've been talking to you, the Crown Prince will have me cut up into very small pieces and poured into the foundation of one of his new high-rises!"

She had expected him to be edgy. "Relax Iskander, no one knows who I am. The phone was untraceable. As long as you weren't followed, then we're fine. If anyone asks, just say one of your mistresses was feeling neglected."

He was only slightly mollified, so she decided to try a conciliatory tone. "Look, I'm sorry I had to break protocol, but there wasn't time to go through the usual channels. I have intel on an imminent terror threat. It's big—and it involves Harbali nationals. I need your help to stop them."

The man's mood remained petulant. "You're wasting both our time. I don't know anything about this terror attack. And why should I do your job for you anyway? What's in it for me?"

She saw she'd have to be tougher with him. "Do I need to spell it out? First off, if America gets hit by Harbali jihadis, we'll come down on this country like a ton of bricks. I'd hate for you to end up as collateral damage. Second, I know you've been buying condos in Miami. I imagine the Emir and Crown Prince would be interested to learn that their deputy defense minister is planning an exit strategy—and downright eager to find out where he is getting the funds."

He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke his demeanor was more contrite. Sometimes you needed honeyed words, she reflected, but other times you had to let your assets know that you had 'em by the balls. "Look, Agnes," he said cajolingly, "if I knew anything, I would tell you. You're right, of course—it doesn't serve any of us if these terrorists succeed. And we

have

intercepted chatter that something big is coming. But I don't have anything more definite than that. I truly cannot help you—I wish I could."

Just for a second, Agnes feared she might burst out in tears. Not that she was the over-emotional type—quite the contrary. But the pressure of the situation, the stress, the sense of responsibility for innocent lives, the feeling of being God's instrument—it had been building up slowly inside her for months, and then come to a rapid and unexpected crescendo today. Even when she'd known that Iskander was her last remaining hope to snatch victory from defeat, she'd maintained an irrational certainty that he would give her something. But now, it seemed, her mission really had reached a bleak and bitter dead-end.

Still—she had her faith, and she wasn't a quitter. Maybe if she just leaned on the man harder, she could squeeze something out of him. Gulping down her distress, she fixed him with stern eyes. Her voice was low and filled with menace. "Don't play dumb with me Iskander. You know something, and you're going to tell me. If you don't give me something I can work with, I swear to God I will bury you."

Amin could see the woman standing before him was desperate, and he felt pity for her. But he could also see she was dangerous, and rightly feared what her desperation might drive her to do. "Ok, ok," he said, the slightest hint of nervousness in his voice. "I can't make any promises. But let me make a call."

* * * * *

The call dragged on a long time. Agnes had picked up a fair amount of Harbali since arriving in-country, but Iskander lapsed into a rural dialect, and talked quickly and colloquially, so she had a hard time keeping up. Anyway it was all just fragments. She thought he was speaking to a succession of people. At one point he turned and fixed her with an appraising look. Then he went back to jabbering away.

Finally, he hung up. "I swear to you by Allah: I do not know anything. But there is someone who might. A distant cousin of mine, in fact. A man called Abdullah Rahim. He is willing to meet with you, if that is what you want."

Agnes knew the name. Rahim was a tribal chieftain out in the hinterlands—an ambitious man who ruled a good chunk of the countryside. His Tashli clan had been feuding with the royal family for generations, and every so often those tensions spilled over into low-grade violence. It was certainly plausible that he had access to information that wasn't available in the capital.

Iskander went on: "There are some conditions. Rahim likes his privacy, so you will have to go to him. Alone. And you'll have to leave your firearms and electronics behind. I can't promise he will help you, but I believe he does know something about the attack."

Agnes folded her arms obstinately. "Uh, no way. I can't meet him like that. I'd be a sitting duck to be kidnapped or bushwhacked. Find another option. Bring him here."

The man replied matter-of-factly. "I understand your concern, but that's the only way he will agree to see you. He is a careful man, with no desire to get snatched by a CIA rendition team. But he has pledged your safety—and out there in the hills, he has the power to make it stick."

Agnes wavered. Being an agent involved taking risks, that was part of the business. The trick was to take smart risks. Under any other circumstances, she would have dismissed this proposal out of hand. But she didn't have anything else to try. What if Rahim had the information to save countless lives, and she simply passed up the opportunity because she was twitchy?

She fixed Iskander with a probing gaze. "Can I trust him?"

He considered carefully before replying. "Abdullah Rahim is not what I would describe as an honorable man. More of a thug, really. But he does have his own sort of code. He won't lie to you—I feel confident of that. And if he says you will be safe, then you will be."

Still Agnes hesitated, unsure what to do. Glancing at her watch, she saw the timer now read

17:11:08

...

17:11:07

...

17:11:06

...

She thought about what those rapidly vanishing minutes and seconds meant—about the dreadful, gory reality that lay behind them. Setting aside her many misgivings, she made her decision. "Ok, I'll meet him."

Iskander nodded and pulled out his phone again. "I'll set it up. It's a long drive and I know you're in a hurry. But... if it pans out, I'll expect your lot to buy me another condo in Florida...?"

* * * * *

For most of the afternoon, Agnes bounced along in a series of decrepit vehicles, blindfolded. Rahim's men were obviously trying to make it hard for anyone to track her. Little did they know (she thought resentfully) that her request for drone surveillance had been turned down. Other regional operations, it seemed, had been given higher priority.

She spent the last stage of the trip in in the back of an old Soviet-made GAZ-66. The road wound and twisted interminably, and from the pounding she was taking, she could tell it was rocky and badly rutted. Finally, they ground to a halt, and there was blessed stillness. Strong hands grasped her elbows and lifted her down to the ground. Then the hood was removed from her head and she found herself dazzled by the slanting rays of the setting sun.

She was standing in the middle of a compound. The bare-dirt courtyard held an assortment of trucks, motorbikes, and Land Cruisers (a few of them had machine-guns mounted, she noted). In and around them was a scattering of young men, who tinkered with the vehicles, chatted in twos and threes, or leaned against the walls smoking. They were a motley group. Some wore tattered camo; some had T-shirts blazoned with the logos of Western rock bands; and a few were clad in traditional caftans, Nearly all of them had AK-47s or Uzis in their hands, or slung with casual indifference on their backs.