Thesis

Chapter 21: Private Investigations

Corinne and Jo are watching Jenny’s sexual torment on the monitor fed by the camera in her cell. “What do you think we should do, Corrine?” Jo says. “Do you think she is actually researching us? It could equally be some sort of put up job by some of the tabloid press.”

“Hmmm, well Fifty will not be the last person to try to capitalise on her experiences, I’m sure,” Corinne responds. “On the other hand again, if she has organised her visit was solely as part of a research project and did not tell us – that’s a bit rude to say the least.”

Jo points to the monitor. It is obvious that the electrical impulses and the feedback from the laptop’s microphone are having the expected effect. “Well, whatever she is up to, I think this little piece of erotic punishment is richly deserved.”

Corinne smiles slowly, “You’re right. I think we should keep the situation under review and see what happens.”

Gerry appears and joins in “What are we doing with Fifty now?”

“George served her up to Nineteen as a treat and then switched things around so that Nineteen was having to both give and take. After that we’ve put Fifty on a feed-back routine.”

“Nineteen? Oh yes, she’d been getting a bit full of herself. That will have helped.” Gerry looks at the monitor. “And now Miss Fifty seems to have something to take her mind off whatever else she might have been up to.”

While Jenny is paying for her careless remarks well into the early morning, Professor Angela Dawney has also makes an early start to the day and, back in the university, she is sitting at her desk.

She is working on a research grant application for a longitudinal project into the differences in play behaviours in young and mature adults. One of the down sides of the academic world is that it seems that the process of gaining the funding for research consumes almost as much effort as the research itself. One of the other downsides is trying to find quality time to do it.

She brews herself a strong  black coffee and savours the warm, strong, black, liquid. Taking a few moments out from important business, she finds her mind wandering to one of her post graduate students. The Prof smiles as she thinks about Jenny McEwan; reflecting on how she managed to get Jenny herself to come up with  the idea of going on a two month consensual slavery course as part of the research for her PhD thesis.

What a brilliant idea!  Useful for Jenny’s project; well perhaps. Useful to get Jenny back into the arms of Angela; almost certainly. Angela ponders how, with any luck, this exercise will drive a wedge between Jenny and her husband, Joe. When Jenny broke up with Angela, she gave the impression that he wasn’t comfortable with BDSM play. Since Angela happens to know that Jenny is rather keen on BDSM play, it seems unlikely she’ll be happy to go back to good old vanilla Joe after this episode. Angela smiles, wondering how pliable Jenny will be when she gets back. According to Angela’s analysis, Jenny should be anxious to prolong the sensations and experiences that she has undergone at Inward Bound and she should be more than willing to follow advice on the best way to do that. Angela’s advice, Angela’s carefully considered advice. Which will be that, by and large, Jenny should go on doing just as she is told.

Angela’s mind begins to drift to what Jenny might have had to endure on her course. Spankings? Canings? Bondage? Nudity? Mmmmmm. …

Suddenly her reverie is broken by the ‘phone. She jerks back irritably into the real world, almost spilling her coffee. She has come into the office early precisely to avoid interruptions!

“Professor Dawney speaking.”

“Oh, hullo Angela, it’s Roy. I thought I saw you in the building and I’m glad I caught you.” It was fairly unusual for the Dean of Faculty to call. Mostly he preferred to drop by. It probably meant this was something urgent, and that, in Angela’s experience was rarely good news.

“Yes, Roy. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I have been in a meeting yesterday with the other Deans and the Vice-Chancellor about the Research Assessment Exercise.” Angela’s spirits dropped at the mention of the RAE process. “We’ve now had a date from the Department of Education for their visitation.  Ministry Aparatchiks in the guise of colleagues from other institutions and their repulsive hangers on, as we all know, but a necessary evil of course. You will not be surprised to learn just how important the Vice Chancellor regards our preparations? Arnold is particularly keen that we put up a good show”

“No, of course not.” Angela is hardly surprised, quite apart from Arnold’s need to maintain the academic reputation of the University and the funding that brings with it., The Vice Chancellor has his eye on the next steps up the rungs of life’s ladder and a consistently high score in the RAE always helps.

“Well, at the risk of being tedious, I have been asked to take the message back to all the Professorial Heads. The University is determined to maintain its last grading and intends to increase its Star Rating this time.” Angela rolled her eyes: star ratings, gradings, assessments, approvals, why couldn’t they let them get on with the research and let the results speak for themselves? “There is nothing more important in the forthcoming year. All other considerations are secondary. You will do all in your power to see to it that all post grads get their degrees and write theses to the highest standard. We will expect you to take every opportunity to have work published: papers, lectures at conferences, poster demonstrations at meetings, you know the sort of thing.”

“Yes, Roy. Of course.” Angela feels exasperation rising, what does he think the department spends its time doing, anyway?

“Erm, well now we know the dates for the assessment, we can all plan accordingly. Anyway, Arnold is also intending to meet with professors personally. Ginger things along, you know the sort of thing.” Angela knows well enough. A complete waste of time in her view. “Oh, and you should expect the Research Assessment Team to take a close interest in the thoroughness of PhD supervision. And, they’ll be taking particular interest in Research Ethics.  So, for goodness sake, make sure that any of your students who might need Ethics Committee approval have got it before they do any experimental or field work.

Angela manages to produce a confident chuckle as she replies, “Yes, of course Roy. I will look forward to seeing Arnold. When does he to want to see me?”

“No idea at the moment. This is just a distant early warning, as it were. I’m speaking to everyone as soon as I can.  Just so we can all have our house in order, get all the ducks in a row. You know.”

Angela does now. “Thanks Roy. Leave it with me,” she says.

“Good. Good. So please, can you make a preliminary sketch, so to speak, of what your final submission will look like? At your earliest?

“Yes, Roy. Of course. Just leave it with me.”

Roy rings off and as she puts the phone down Angela’s mood has darkened. Considerably. She’s thinking again about Jenny and a worm of doubt starts to wiggle in Angela’s brain. Angela hadn’t actually got quite as far as gaining Ethics Committee approval for Jenny’s jaunt. Without any doubt it should have been. This was after all research with human subjects (Jenny) and research involving a student as subject (Jenny) Damn! Damn! What to do?

Since Jenny broke with Angela, their relationship had been – strained. And, Angela’s eye had not been quite on the ball. She’d certainly slipped up with that.

Then again, how was her research actually going? And, was it really research at all at this stage? Thinking about it really, what Jenny is doing doesn’t really qualify as proper research, yet. It’s more a sort of experiential immersion, getting to grips with the subject matter rather than research per se.

Angela could always claim that she’d considered ethics approval would only be needed when they moved to a more detailed exploration of the subject.

What is needed is something that made this look sufficiently interesting to justify the work done so far, but sufficiently tentative as to leave aside the question of why she hadn’t gone for ethics approval. Was there anything which she could put in her Research Assessment Exercise submission which was worth writing and which Jenny would also put her name to? The RAE is a pain but the University takes it seriously. There has to be a way to get something into that. What else? What about an early publication? 

Angela shook her head. It was far too soon for a paper and that made it look like the whole thing was further on than she wanted it to appear, but what about something for the next British Association meeting? Some sort of short presentation maybe. Perhaps a flyer for the attendees outlining the areas that she is working on? That might be a possibility …

So, thinks Angela, what are we going to do?  The first challenge is to get the little bitch back at her desk here and start to prepare the poster, that’s what! Her Inward Bound expedition was supposed to be a pilot project anyway. No, more like an exploratory observational exercise. Something to see if this was a line of research which could be followed. Now that sounds better, there wouldn’t be any issue over her judgment that the Ethics Committee would not be interested in it at this rudimentary stage. Rudimentary. Yes! That’s the right word. Rudimentary. Provisional. Yes… That’s more like it! Angela starts to feel more comfortable.

But, what to do in practice? How to get her back? And, not to raise Jenny’s suspicions?

Angela slowly assesses the problem. The line of attack seemed to be sound enough, but the issue is what to do next? How to find some reason for Inward Bound to end the sessions and send her back. But, thinks Angela, they’ll be happy just as long as they get their money.

Of course, Angela realises, money is the answer! Inward Bound is being paid from Angela’s endowment fund. What about a convenient cash flow problem? Inward Bound is a commercial outfit, after all. If the money dries up, they’ll want to terminate Jenny’s little adventure. Pity it could not have run a little longer, thinks Angela, regretfully. Still, this is now a survival exercise. Angela’s survival. She considers one final time. She decides. Finally.

Angela opens “Contacts” on her cell phone and dials the Inward Bound number. Corrine answers the phone.

At the end of the conversation Angela feels much happier, but Corinne doesn’t.

“Larry, can I have a word?” Corinne says, putting her head around the door of the room that Larry is currently using as his office.

“Sure,” he replies, “come on in.”

Larry is enjoying his trip out to Suffolk. He hasn't seen much of the Inward Bound facilities in action so far and it has been useful to see how Corinne has spent some of Clegg's investment.

“How can I help?”

“I'm not sure. It may not be a problem, I guess. It's one of the participants in the current programme. Here, have a look at this, first of all,” Corinne tosses a folder across Larry's desk. “See what you think.”

Larry opens the folder. It's the transcript of the discussion between “Fifty” and Jo and a collection of print outs of the e-mails between “Fifty” and Angela. Larry reads them through, with a furrowing brow.

“And on top of this,” Corinne says, “there is supposed to be a problem with her payments, too. Together it all makes me feel uncomfortable.”

“OK,” says Larry. “Lets deal with this ‘research’ question first.”

“I guess the main worry,” Corinne says, “is what happens at the end of her course. If she is using her time here as some sort of research opportunity, I mean. I'm not concerned by the academic analysis – I suppose I'll be interested to see what conclusions she comes to. And I don’t think she’d go shooting her mouth off to the media herself.”

“I thought you'd got the participants tied down with a sort of non-disclosure agreement?”

Corinne nods. “Yes, that’s why I don’t think she’d blow any whistles. I suppose I'm more concerned about what happens when she writes up her research. You can imagine the sort of grief we'd get if one of the tabloids found out about her research, can’t you? Those trolls have a way of turning even the most academic papers into something sensational.  Now, while some of our clients are pretty up-front about their interests most of them would rather what goes on here weren’t spread across the front pages of the papers. I think it's manageable, but I thought you'd want to know.” 

“And the payment problem?”

“Well yes, that’s odd too. I just took a call from Fifty’s ‘safe contact’ – you know the person they have for their bail out.” Larry nods. “It’s a Professor Angela Dawney at Fifty’s university. She’s saying there may be some problem with the final payment for Fifty’s last four weeks.”

“I thought you took the payments as a direct transfer from the participant’s account. If Fifty is here with us she’s hardly in a position to stop the payment.”

“We do but it seems that the bank account that Fifty gave us is actually some university account. There hasn't been a problem until now but Dawney says that she thinks there might not be enough to cover the final payment. She tried to sound like she being helpful.”

“Do you think she was?”

Corrine shakes her head. “Not a chance. I had the definite feeling that she was in ‘spanner in the works’ mode. What I’m not sure is whether she’s trying to throw a spanner in our works, or in Fifty’s. In any case there can’t be a real problem because I checked the bank statements and Fifty paid up front in full. Maybe, Dawney is worried in case we’ve discovered what Fifty is up to and she thinks that stopping the payment is a way to get her out. Maybe, she just wants her girlfriend back.”

“I thought Fifty was married.”

“Yes, but – well -  there’s definitely something going on there.”

“Mmm, yes,” Larry seems abstracted. “Well, yes. Errm. I need to think about this. We don't need to do anything right now, do we?”

“If you're worried, I can pull her out of the course and send her home. It will mean a refund, but we can stand that.”

“No. No need for that. Like I said, let me think about it. If you're going to do anything at all, I'd just make sure that Fifty has plenty to keep her busy and not too much time for thinking.”

Corinne thinks about it for a moment. “OK. Well, Jo has already set up some more sessions for Fifty. It's about time she had another visit from Ylena, too.”

“I'll leave it to you, you're the expert.” Larry nods to Corinne. “But,  I do want to talk to Whitechapel about this. They might be a bit sensitive about it, but I'm sure I can square things. Like you say the results of any research might be useful, anyway. I’ll get this young lady’s background looked into and – what did you say her name was? – Angela Dawney - we will have a look at her too.  The two of them seem to be at the middle of a rather sticky web and I can’t pretend that I’m happy with it. Let’s see what I can find out.”

Corinne leaves Larry to it and as soon as she leaves the office, he picks up the phone to contact Clegg.      

“Hi, Larry, what's up?” Clegg sounds affable, Larry assumes that business at the old firm is going well. “I've got some of the team here. Hang on, I'll put you on hands free.”

“Great,” thinks Larry. What he says is, “Hi, everybody.”

“Hey Larry, how's Suffolk,” says Dr Jordan.

“Hi, Larry,” it's Elly's voice.

“Larry,” Connie chimes in.

“Well Freddie, I'm sorry to interrupt your meeting, but I just wanted to run something past you.” Larry describes Jo's interview with Jenny.

“And, Corinne doesn't think it’s a problem?”

“No, but then, she's taking it at face value. I guess my concern is that some of the competition could be trying to check out what Inward Bound is up to. There are a couple of businesses like Inward Bound and I wouldn't put it past any of them to sneak in their own little ferret. If I were facing a competitor like Inward Bound, I'd probably do the same and I'd use someone like this girl – although hopefully one that had a bit more control over her mouth.”

“Why don't you just ship her down here?” It's Connie's voice. “I'm sure I can divert her interest; take her mind off her studies.” Larry can almost see the glint of Connie's sharp little teeth.

“I'd like to keep this contained up here if I can, Connie,” Larry says.

“There is another possibility.” This time it’s Freddie speaking. “Maybe, she's nothing to do with your competitors. Maybe, it's one of my competitors. There's always someone sniffing around. We put a lot of people's noses out of joint with the Kushtian contract and there are Eastern European start-ups, who would be keen to put a spanner in our works, too.”

“I really don't think it's anyone taking an interest in your side of things, Freddie,” Larry is concerned in case Clegg wants to get too involved.

“Not sure I can take the risk, old man,” Freddie says.

Larry has learned that when Freddie says “old man” you'd better watch your back. “Freddie, I really don't want any of your team trampling over the Suffolk operation.”

“I don't think we need to do that, Larry,” Elly's voice offers sweet reason as ever, Larry thinks. “Why don't we do a little research of our own? Check out some more of your problem's background. Harry's boys and girls haven't got a lot on at the moment. If it looks like a problem that affects us, we'll fix it. If it’s anything to do with your side of things – competitor or not – we'll leave it to you.”

Larry thinks for a moment. “Sounds OK to me,” he says. “Just tell Harry to be discreet. I don't want to hear that half the women at the university have suddenly disappeared.”

“Larry!” it’s Connie sounding offended. “As if, we would!”

“Are we agreed, then?” Freddie interrupted.

“Sounds fine to me,” says Larry.

“One other thing,” says Doctor Jordan. “You might like to turn the wick up on your problem's training programme. Maybe, one possibility is that with a little extra encouragement, she decides to sign up for a long-term commitment at the end of this.”.

“Hang on, Doc. That's leaping ahead,” Larry says. “But, you're right about intensifying her training. I've already got Corinne doing that.”

“Let me know if she needs a hand,” says Connie.

“Thanks, Connie, but I'm sure Corinne's team will do OK,” says Larry.

Freddie, brings things to a conclusion and Larry hangs up. Larry feels he’s got off lightly. Later that afternoon, Larry catches up with Corinne. “I've given things a bit more thought,” he says. “There's probably nothing to worry about, as we said. I'm just concerned, in case some of our competition is trying to pull a fast one.”

“Does that sort of thing really go on? Industrial espionage in this sort of business?”

“You'd be surprised. Anyway, I'm going to get McEwan’s background looked into. Just so we're sure there's nothing odd going on, but for the time being, I think we've got the right approach. Let's just keep her as busy as can be and make sure she gets the ride that she's paying for. Or, Dawney’s paying for, or whoever!”

It takes Harry’s team about a week before they feel that they have a picture of what’s going on with Jenny. Even then, it’s pretty inconclusive as Harry explains over a beer.

“I can't say that I see anything very sinister going on, Larry,” he says. “Leastways, as far as your inmate is concerned. We've done a whole lot of profile checks on her and as far as we can tell, she's exactly what she claims to be. The only thing that is different from her application form is that she is involved in a research programme, as you suspected.”

“OK, so what's the background on that?”

“Well, we managed to get into her office at the college and we've got copies of her research proposals – she's looking at stress and its impact on sexual responses, much as you thought. There are a couple of odd things though. Firstly, her supervisor on the project is...”

“Don't tell me. Professor Dawney.”

“Yepp. Who was also your girl's main squeeze for some time. If some of the e-mails on young Jennifer's laptop are anything to go by, the Prof wasn't entirely happy that the relationship came to an end.”

“And, she's McEwan’s phone-a-friend on this course, too.”

“Which means that young McEwan could be a bit out on a limb. Especially, given that the university may not know the full details of the research she is doing just at the moment.”

“How come? I mean, how come we know?”

“Checked the files in her office. There was no record of an approval from the Research Ethics Committee for her stint at Inward Bound.  Research on human subjects and especially on students (your young lass qualifies twice there) should be approved before it gets off the ground. McEwan is registered as a PhD student, but there was no record of the Ethics Committee’s approval for the Inward Bound expedition. That’s supposed to be important.

“Which leads us to suspect that Mrs. Jennifer McEwan is probably on the straight and level, but that Professor Dawney isn't.?”

“Well, yes, but I don't think there's anything to get paranoid about. Except maybe this....” Harry plays an ace as he pulls out a photograph and passes it across to Larry. It's a photograph of Angela's desk. Harry points to one of the pictures standing on it. 

“I'm not sure what I'm looking at,” says Larry. “This looks like some gathering of the great and the good. Some conference or other, I suppose.”

“Exactly. It's the 14th annual conference of the Foundation for Behavioural Psychological Research, chaired by one Professor Angela Dawney, last year in St Petersburg. That's her in the middle.”

“I'm still not sure what I'm looking at.”

“I thought you might recognise the gentleman standing behind her right shoulder.”

Larry peers at the photograph again and says quietly, “Oh, shit.” 

“Exactly. Or, possibly. That's Anatoly Kustensky, isn't it?”

Larry nods. “I didn't have him down for in interest in psychological matters.”

“Why not? We are. He saw what we can do when we tried to ship him your ex-girlfriend. He'll have been keen to get at some of the same expertise that Connie's folk are using.”

“I thought Freddie was collaborating with Anatoly's people these days.

“Well, yes and no. You know how it is – partners on this, competitors on that. The lines get a bit blurry.”

“And, you think Anatoly may be using Dawney to find out more about what we're up to.”

“If I'm honest, Larry, no,” Harry says bluntly. “The problem is that Freddie does. And, you know how Freddie is, when he develops an interest in things. He’s made up his mind that Dawney and Anatoly are bed mates and deeply embroiled in some sort of conspiracy.”

Larry nods disconsolately, “Yes. Freddie does look for the dramatic. I mean we’ve nothing to suggest that Dawney even favours male partners, have we?”

“Well, no, not really. I found some conference papers in Dawney’s office. Kustensky did write a big cheque for the Foundation and they did co-host the end of conference dinner and she did get the use of a dacha provided by said Kustensky during the conference and for a fortnight afterwards.”

“And, did the dacha come with hot and cold running Kustensky?”

“Ha! Well that’s the question! There is a limit to what you can find out from one burglary but I found some snaps. You know the sort of thing: Some of the other delegates by the swimming pool; Anatoly being very chummy, making sure everyone had a good time.”

“Well, it all sounds a bid strange. What is Freddie’s take on this?”

“He wants to pull your McEwan girl out of Inward Bound. Thinks it will be safer all round if your business isn't exposed to risks from Anatoly.”

Larry nods. So far, it makes sense. Ex-KGB hoods stomping over the Suffolk site would hardly be good for business. If Anatoly were involved in any of this, then Jennifer would be much better out of there for a while.

“He wants to give her to Connie to see what she can get out of her. I don't think there's anything to be found out, but you never know.”

Larry nods again. “But, assuming she doesn't know anything about it, where does that get us?”

“Freddie is due to see Anatoly in a week in any case. We're going to do some more research into the Professor's activities and Freddie is going to talk to him about it, if needs be. Face to face. He'll decide then what's to be done, but he'd like to have his hands on all the pieces before the start of the game.”

“Does that include Dawney?”

Harry looks uncomfortable. “Maybe, but not if I can avoid it. I'll want something to come out of our research that is bit more than the circumstantial stuff we've got so far before we go round to her place with our collecting bag.”

“OK,” says Larry, “but you'll need to let me get things squared off with the Inward Bound folk and I don't want Mrs McEwan appearing in Freddie's 'for sale' catalogue, unless it’s absolutely unavoidable. Can we try to make this look like it’s all part of her 'experience' if at all possible?”

“I'll do what I can, Larry,” Harry says. “But, you know I can't make any promises.” 

Larry heads back to Suffolk rehearsing in his mind what to say to Corinne. It could be a very difficult conversation. It’s not as if he has ever explained just how Clegg Enterprises makes their money or exactly why Anatoly is a problem. He can’t really tell her everything can he? But can he tell her nothing? That’s the question! He runs through his options once more … and then decides.

In the dead of night Larry is woken from sleep by his mobile: it rings louder and louder and louder until he shakes himself awake and answers.

“Larry?”

“Yes.” He’s still dozy. He’s not one of those people that wakes instantly ready for action. “ … Is that Corinne?”

“Yes, Larry,” Corinne sounds impatient, worried and angry all at once. “There’s been a serious incident at the Centre. Can you come over right away?”

“Yes, of course, but what on earth is the matter? You sound pretty chewed up.”

“It’s Fifty. A group of men turned up at the Centre and arrested her. They’ve taken her away. I’ve no idea where.”

“Arrested her?”

“They said they were from the United States Department of Justice. They had ID and everything else you would expect.”

“Well who were they? Why did they want her? Do we have anyway of contacting them?”

“How the hell would I know who they are? They bowled in, waved their warrant cards, or whatever it is they have, around, and took her. They left us a card with a number to call if we were worried. Like we wouldn’t be!”

“So have you tried the number?”

“Yes. It’s a US number, Washington somewhere. There’s just an answer phone message asking us to ‘call in the morning’. So that will be what? Two o’clock tomorrow afternoon our time?”

“OK Corinne, I’ll be right with you.” Larry knows he won’t get any more sleep tonight. “But don’t worry. Our firm has had quite a bit of support from the Foreign Office in the past and I’m sure I could access our contact there. Sounds as if this is really going to be a Home Office or Ministry of Justice issue but I’m sure I can find out where we go next or who we need to speak to. Have you be in touch with your solicitor or Fifty’s Safe Contact yet?”

“No, no we haven’t. I mean it’s the middle of the night and to be honest I’m completely out of my depth ….”

“It’s OK Corinne. Sometimes it’s best to try to sort these things out quietly, if you understand me. Don’t do anything until I get there. I’ll come over straight away.”

After he hangs up, Larry smiles. He yawns, showers, shaves and cleans his teeth. After all, a white knight has to arrive looking the part.

Chapter 22: Extraordinary Rendition

Memorandum

From: Jo

To: Corinne

Subject: Fifty “Rendition”

Corinne, I don’t know what the hell is going on and I want to put on my file my concerns. Whoever these people are, I can’t see that they should be able to do this. I'll accept your assurances that this is all being done legally and that it has nothing to do with the suspicions about Fifty’s activities here, but I want it to be very clear that myself, and the rest of the other staff are unhappy with this situation. Jo.

Memorandum

From: Corinne

To:  Jo, Charlotte  &  The Team

Subject: Fifty “Rendition”

Jo, Here's a formal response to your concerns.

Yes, Larry and I are just as concerned as you are. It seems astonishing that the American authorities can act as if the UK was just another part of the United States, but we’ve had legal advice that this is all allowed under US Law and UK treaties. Larry’s people are using their contacts in the Government to reach someone who can tell us just what is going on and hopefully help. I will brief the whole team just as soon as I have anything to report.

Corinne.

...........................................................................................................................................................

Jenny's Recollections (Day 40):

I'm absolutely petrified. What on earth is going on? I'm studying stress, and this is terror.

Last night I was put back in my cell as usual after a tough shibari session with Ylena. She had been as good as her word about the Russian flag. Red, white and blue ropes, white making a sort of harness arrangement around my head; a gag and a blindfold. Blue around my body; an intricate karada. Red around my thighs, my knees and ankles. Ylena is pleased with the effect. I have the same sensations as before. I find myself totally caught up in what Ylena is doing to me, completely absorbed in the feeling that every movements is held back by the pressure of the ropes.  Ylena declared herself pleased with her slooga and then I was put back in my cell.

The bars locked closed, the shutters came down, the lights went out. I climbed into bed and pulled my blanket over me. There's no point in not trying to sleep and they keep us so busy that I need the rest anyway. Sometimes, I turn over the day's events in my mind trying to make sense of it all for whatever it is that I'm going to write at the end of this. This night though, I fall asleep pretty much straight away.

I wake up. I've no idea what the time is. All I know is that it's still dark. There's some noise coming from outside the cell, voices arguing. The shutter of my cell starts to go up. Light streams underneath it. As the shutter goes up, I see the cause for the noise. There are five men, all smartly dressed, dark suits, white shirts, dark ties, crew cut hair, dark glasses. All of them are solidly built. They all seem to have one earphone, with a curl cord disappearing beneath their collars. One of them, he looks a bit older than the other - his face lined with experience, is waving a sheet of paper at Charlotte, while Jo is standing with her hand on the switch that opens the door to my cell.

“I'm glad you decided to co-operate Ma'am,” the man with the paper says, in an American accent with a tone that is both polite and clipped. Charlotte looks as though she's not happy with whatever is going on. Jo looks annoyed, as well.

One of the other men walks across to the bars of my cell and calls in to me. “We're sorry to disturb you at this time, Ma'am. Could you stand up, please?”

He holds up a chunky mobile phone towards me. He looks at the screen and looks at me and then looks at one of the other men.

One of the other men disappears only to come back a few moments later. “Here is the picture modification from Langley, Sir.” He hands the first man another mobile. The first man holds it towards me and then nods to another of the group. “That's a confirmation, Sir” he says.

Another man approaches. He holds up an official looking ID card. I can read the words  Agent Elmer Black, Department of Justice. “Jennifer Alison McEwan. You are being detained in the custody of the Authorities of the United States.”

The American continues, “We have information that you and your associates are involved in activities prejudicial the interests of the Government of the United States and you are being detained for further investigation and questioning. Legal representation will be arranged for you at an appropriate time. I'm afraid that you have to come with us.”

“But why? Where? What's going on?” I'm pretty disturbed by all this. I can feel my pulse racing and it gets no slower when I realise that each of these men has a bulge in their jacket that suggests they are carrying guns.

“I can't explain that here, Miss, I'm afraid. You’ll be aware that we are at liberty to detain any foreign national suspected of offences against the US legal code. The Agency simply asked that we arrange with the people here for you to be transferred to our facility. I'm sure that it will all be sorted out there. You will appreciate that in matters of electronic espionage and sabotage, counterterrorism and Homeland Security the Western Governments and ourselves collaborate very closely.” Charlotte and Jo are looking on, mouths open in surprise.

I'm confused. “What do you mean, counter terrorism?” I'm thinking 'Agency'? What is this, the CIA, or something?

“You have links with Russia and certain individuals suspected of involvement with electronic sabotage.”

“No.” I say “No, I don't.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, our information is that you are married to a Joseph McEwan, who was engaged in projects around the Sea of Azov prior to his current activities in Cambodia.”

“Well, yes.”

“And, you don't think that constitutes 'links with Russia’?”

“Well, no. But well, maybe, I suppose...”

“Don't worry, ma'am. I'm sure we can sort this all out.” He turns to Jo. “Open the cell doors, please,” he says. Jo shrugs and does as he asks. “Thank you Ma'am.” He beckons to me. “If you could walk this way, Ma'am.” I look at Jo. She shrugs again. There doesn't seem to be anything else for me to do. “That's very helpful Ma'am,” the older man says.

The men all surge in. Two of the silent heavies grab one of my arms each. Someone else passes and fastens wide belt round my waist and my wrists are clipped to each side of the belt. It only takes moments. Someone else again pulls a leather helmet over my head and laces it firmly, the laces at the back. I am blind and dumb and helpless.

I hear Charlotte say, “Is that absolutely necessary?”

“We don't tell you how to run your operation, Ma'am. I'm sure you'll agree we're best able to assess our own security procedures and approach. We carry out a strict risk assessment for every transfer.”

They're holding me tightly, but not viciously, although it’s perfectly obvious that if I try to make a sudden move there is no chance I'll be allowed to go anywhere. I can just hear the American speaking to Jo, “The Department of Justice is very grateful for your cooperation, Ma’am. I’m sure I do not need to remind you that these events should remain confidential.

The man continues, “and this is, of course, covered by the provisions of your own Government’s Official Secrets Act.”

I am marched out of my cell, one of the heavies on each side, up to the ground floor and outside. There is the sensation of cold air on my naked flesh as we go outside and I'm lifted into some sort of van. My hands are re-cuffed to one of the seats, doors slam and the car sets off. The whole incident has taken hardly any time at all.

I've no idea how long we drive for. It's hot and stuffy with the hood still over my head. Neither of the men touch me at all, but I'm wedged between them.

Now, we're going quite fast, at a steady speed and on a relatively smooth road. It must be a motorway or a dual carriageway; we don't slow down or turn sharply for quite a while. Then, we're on to stopping, starting, turning and bumping again. And then, we stop.

There's the slamming of car doors. I'm expecting to be pulled out of wherever I am but nothing happens for quite a while. They've forgotten me! Of course it's a ridiculous thought, but then, it's a crazy situation. Then there's a clunk, cold air on my flesh again and my hands are released from the seat, clipped once more to the belt and I am out of the van still with the hood over my head.

“Mind your feet, Ma'am,” a voice says. “There's gravel here for few yards till we get to the Facility.” The gravel is sharp under my feet, but it’s only a few steps until I'm on stone and then through a door inside somewhere and there's wood or some warm surface beneath my feet.

I'm gripped by the arms again and hustled along again for a way, still with the hood over my head. Eventually, two sets of hands take me and I'm put down on the floor. Except, it's not the floor, I'm kneeling on cold metal bars. They push me forward from behind. There's a clang and a click. I try to move. My back and head bang against bars above me. I try to twist around and my shoulder hits against metal as well. My wrists are dragged behind my back and fastened together. My ankles cuffs are fastened too. The hood is unlaced, unstrapped and pulled off my head. I can see that I've been pushed into a tiny cage, not high enough for me to sit up in, not wide enough to let me turn around. There's a heavy padlock on the door. Even if I can get my wrists free from my cuffs, I couldn't get out of the cage. I'm in a dimly lit room. Two of the dark suited men that took me from Inward Bound, (or I suppose two other identically dressed men, how can I tell?) are standing looking down at me. One of them lifts his hand and gives a circling wave. I feel the cage start to move. In no time, it's ten or twelve feet off the ground, spinning slowly on a chain somewhere above my head. As the cage spins, I watch the men leave and I see that there are four other cages hanging from the ceiling of the room. What have I got in to?

I'm in the cage for what seems like a lifetime. The bars are cutting into my knees, I cannot really get my feet into a position where they can help support me. I am cramped and cannot straighten out without banging into the bars. If I do try to move, the cage starts to swing.

The next development gives me no comfort, either. Suddenly, the room is filled with light as lamps set into the ceiling inches above my head come on. It's dazzling; they're hot. At the far end of the room the door opens and in strides the most daunting looking woman. My first sight of her makes  me catch my breath. She's dressed as conservatively as the men, dark suit, white blouse, sunglasses. I can see that she's black, darker even than the picture of Diallo Ramatoulaye that Gerry had, or so it seems in the harsh light. She strides down the room getting closer to me all the time. Predatory. In charge.

The woman approaches my cage, takes off her shades and peers up at me. She turns and clicks her fingers. I feel my cage start to lower, going down until she is looking me straight in the eye. She smiles, but I don't sense any warmth. Her teeth are as white as her blouse. She reaches out and prods the cage, watching as I spin in front of her.

“Hmmm. Interesting,” she's says, peering at me. “We're going to have a real interesting talk about you and how your friends in Russia are these days and what they are up to.”

I have no idea who she is or what she is talking about. “I don't know anything about this,” I say, “I've never been to Russia. I’ve got no Russian friends. Sure, my husband worked out there for a while, but he hasn't got anything to do with the Russians beyond that. He was just part of trying to fix some of their water problems. That’s the only thing he has to do with the Russians.”

“No, of course. We know that. This isn't about him.”

“Oh,” I say, “but your people said...”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s not about him. It’s about you.”

I'm about to say something, but she carries straight on. “Now, don't interrupt Connie,” she says. It’s the closest she gets to introducing herself.  She takes a final look at me. “We'll meet again soon. Don't worry, we'll have a long talk,” she says. I'm worried. And scared.

Connie turns on her heels and strides back towards the door, her heels tapping their way across the room. The lights go off. This time, it's pitch black.

By the time they come on again, hours have passed and this time the dark suited men come back. My cage is lowered onto a trolley. They disconnect it from the chain that has held me aloft and I'm wheeled off, still in my cage. I'm rolled into a small room, one of the men unfastens the padlock on the door of my cage, the other helps pull me out. I'm so stiff that I sprawl on the floor at their feet.

“You'll get used to it, kid,” one of the men says.

“No, she won't,” says the other, with a laugh.

I start to get some feeling back in my limbs, but all I can do is to stretch out on the floor. I'm groaning with discomfort, but my distress doesn't seem to disturb them. I'm worried that they think I'm going to be here long enough to actually get used to it and I still don't understand why I'm here.

I get the chance to learn more when Connie comes in. She's wearing black trousers, a white shirt and a tight black waistcoat that fits under her bust. All I can do is stare up at her as she strides into the room. Her whole presence radiates power. She turns to one of the men. “Can she stand?”

He shrugs, reaches down and unfastens my ankle cuffs. He steps back without helping me further. It's pretty obvious I'm going to have to do it on my own. I wriggle round and manage to get onto my knees. My thighs and calves are aching, stiff from being confined in the cage. My knees are grazed from the bars of the cage and my shoulders are bruised and scraped, too. Connie watches as I carry on trying to get up. It's not easy at the best of times with your hands locked behind your back, but I manage it. I'm not too steady on my feet and lurch over against the wall.

Connie seems impressed. “Not bad,” she says. She takes a good look at me, turning me this way and that. “All right. She's not in too bad shape. Get her showered, clean up those grazes and scrapes. I want an assessment on my desk by the end of the morning. OK?”

“Sure,” says the taller of the two men quietly. Connie is obviously in charge here.

“Any difficulties with the collection?” Connie says.

“No. The people there were perfectly cooperative. They were quite happy with the paper work..”

Connie nods and goes, leaving me with the two men. One of them helps me to straighten up, warning me to keep quiet. I try to ask them why I've been brought here, what is to happen to me. They ignore my questions, telling me to shut up if I don't want my mouth strapped shut again. I take their advice.

They hustle me away to a shower block and then to see a medic who looks me over, dabs my cuts and grazes with antiseptic and then declares me fit. She gives me a sort of orange robe, a bit like a hospital theatre gown. It has a badge saying “Detainee”. I put it on feeling strange, it’s the first clothing I've worn for a long time. It all feels a bit like when I first arrived at the Inward Bound Centre, but this time it's all more brutal, more matter-of-fact, like I'm on some sort of production line!

I'm taken back to see Connie again, this time in her office. As I'm brought by one of the heavies in suits there's another girl – her secretary, I guess - giving her a folder. It looks like some I've seen in the offices at Inward Bound. Connie doesn't look at me, she just goes on studying the folder.

“Well,” she says, “this is interesting. It's not often I get to deal with someone that has actually signed up for slavery.” She looks up. “That presents us with an opportunity. Sometimes, it can be a bit of a problem what we do when we've finished these interrogation sessions. There's too much focus on some of the Agency's detention facilities now. I'm going to need some advice. Depending on what comes out of these discussions, maybe when we've finish we can just extend this contract,” she pulls out a copy of the form that I signed when applying for the Inward Bound course, “or maybe we can sell you on somewhere. Save us all the embarrassment? Unless, of course, we have got this completely wrong and you can – well – go back.”

I'm confused. My emotions are swinging between abject terror and blinding anger. Who are these people and why do they think that the Inward Bound agreement gives them any rights over me? I think back to when I first got to Inward Bound, and Anna joking suggested that they should sell me. Surely, they didn't mean that sort of thing seriously goes on?

“Excuse me, but what right has anyone from the United States to come and arrest me and start threatening me with prosecution?” I say.

“I think we'll do me asking the questions,” Connie responds. “But to put your mind at rest, I’ll tell you just exactly how. First, thanks to your Extradition Act 2003, our people merely have to make an extradition request and off you go. No court hearing in the UK needed anymore. Second, as one of the people from our Department of Justice pointed out to some people from your Court of Appeal, if a suspect is apprehended abroad and returned Stateside, you go straight to jail pending trial and your kidnap in the UK cuts no ice with our Judiciary. You’re a suspect and my colleagues and I are intending see you safe behind bars as soon as possible. OK?”

Connie’s explanation of the state of the world leaves me gasping at the arrogance of it and terrified at the extent of my predicament. She nods at my escort. He grips me by the arm and forces me to the floor until I'm lying sprawled flat out in front of Connie's desk. He grabs the back of my head and pushes it around until my face is pressed against the wooden floor. He spreads my arms out so that my hands are in front of my head, palms down. He kicks my ankles apart, spreading my legs. “Thanks,” says Connie. “That'll do for now.”

I hear the suit leave, shutting the door behind him and then I hear Connie's chair scrape on the floor as she pushes it back. There's the tap of heels on the wooden floor as she walks around from behind her desk. I don't dare look up. From the corner of my eye with my face pressed against the floor, I can just see the tip of the toe of one of Connie's shoes. “Now let's talk about your  travels on the internet and what you do at the orders of your boss and especially what you do for one Anatoly Kustensky,” she says.

“I don’t go on the internet, at least anywhere you would be interested in.”

“I have just explained the seriousness of your present situation.” Connie's heels tap on the wooden floor as she moves away from my head. “You'll really have to pay attention.” I feel something hard running up the inside of my thigh, like a stick or – Oh no! I realise what it feels like – one of Ylena's canes. The stick flicks at my robe, I feel it fall open behind me exposing my buttocks. Now listen to Connie and answer my questions. Tell me about your friends, the friends who ask you to hack our Department’s intranet”

“I told you I have never been to your site. Anyway, I couldn’t hack anything, I’m no computer specialist.”

“Try again.” Connie's tone is becoming irritated, but I don't know what I can say.

“It’s the truth, I haven't.”

“I'll help you,” Connie says. “Tell me about Anatoly Kustensky”

“Who? No. I've never heard of him.”

“Well, what about this man? What did he ask you to do?” Connie stoops down and puts a picture on the floor beside me.

“Nothing. I have never seen him either”

“Well, I’m getting impatient because I know for a fact you see him quite often. Think carefully: twenty-five years without parole is a long time …”

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, but I have never seen him. “

“Tell me about your boss.”

“Professor Dawney?”

“Just how many bosses do you have?”

“Just the one.” I’m starting to get confused. “Professor Dawney - she is the supervisor for my thesis.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“What about Kustensky?”

“I told you, I don’t know him.”

“I have to disagree, Mrs Jennifer McEwan. And, it’s going to be a long time before you see Mr. McEwan if these answers don’t get a lot more honest, because we both know that you and Professor Dawney used to share a bed and she was not pleased when you left  to become Mrs. McEwan.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s our job to know.”

“Well, yes but that was three years ago and ... “

“And, you continue to see her.“

“But, I can’t get out of it. I work for her.”

“Does Joe know about the two of you?”

“No, I well, he …”

“Do you love him?”

“Yes, of course. What’s that got to do with anything?”

She ignores my question. “But, not enough to be honest?”

“Yes, well no, well it was over between Angela and me and … “

Connie walks back towards my head, the tip of her stick trailing along my side as she does so. I'm terrified that she's about to lose her temper and start hitting me.

“You collaborated?”

“With Prof? Yes, I’m supposed to.”

“So, you and your lover collaborated to keep your husband ignorant of your affair? And, what else did this extend to?” She's standing by my head again. She rests one of her feet lightly on the back of my hand. There's no pressure, but it feels if she shifted her weight by the slightest amount she could punch right through it with the heel of her shoe.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I meant she collaborated with me on my project, that was all.”

“And, back in your bedroom?”

“What?”

“In your bedroom. Was that 'psychological research' that went on there?”

“Nothing went on in my bedroom. She never came to my flat.” She's touching the back of my neck with her cane now.

“Oh, so you used to go to hers?”

“No. I told you there was nothing like that. Besides, I am now in another relationship.”

“We know. With Professor Dawney.”

“No, with Joe, my husband.”

“Did you find it easy, sharing?”

“Sharing! What on earth are you talking about?”

“You, Professor Dawney, and Joe. Very liberal minded, very intellectual.”

“No, it wasn't like that; it wasn't. I don't know anything about this. None of it is true!”

And, what about him? Connie taps the picture again, gently with the tip of her cane but her very gentleness seems so dangerous. You didn't meet Anatoly Kustensky with Professor Dawney?”

“No, never.”

I hear the tap of Connie's heels on the floor. She's returning to her desk. “You can get up now,” she says.

As I scramble to my feet, I see her press a button. One of the suits appears.

“I've finished with her for now,” Connie says, without another word to me. “Put her back in her accommodation for now. And, see that she's safe.”

He takes me downstairs in the building to a large bare room. He puts me in one of what they call the accommodation cages – they're bigger than the cage I was put in first of all and made of wire mesh rather than heavy bars. 'Seeing that she's safe' means 'cuff her hands, so she can't get up to anything and strap this gag on her so she can’t call out.' There's enough space in the cage so that I can sit up and move around a bit. There are eight cages in this room lined up along the walls, four along one wall, four along the other. A solid partition separates each cage from its neighbours. All the other cages are empty. Each of the cages has a water bottle with a tube sticking through the bars. I could get a drink if it wasn’t for the gag.

I'm still only wearing my orange “Detainee” robe, but at least they haven't chained my ankles. I've been here about an hour when Connie's secretary turns up. Her English voice is so calm and matter of fact, it sounds bizarre in these terrifying surroundings.

“Oh, I hope you're all right in there. It looks like you have enough room. Connie said to check. She likes to make sure things are done just so. Anyway, she says she wants me to take you down to her. She wants to have another chat.”

I don't like the sound of this. You here all sorts of things about what goes on in these sort of places, but there's nothing I can do as she opens the cage and helps me out.

“Anyway come along,” she says in a friendly tone. “I'll take you over there, if you like.”

I'm not sure I do like, but with my wrists cuffed behind me I can't really object as she leads me out of the office.

The room she takes me to looks like a gymnasium. Wooden bars line the walls to either side. Mirrors cover the walls at either end of the room.

Connie is there waiting for me; she straps a leather blindfold across my face and I am manoeuvred into the middle of the room. My feet are pushed apart and there is the sound of furniture scraping across the floor.

What feels like a plank is passed narrow side up between my legs. It brushes my labia. I have to raise just off my heels to avoid it. Various clicking noises follow. A strap is attached to the front of my collar and one behind. I cannot move either forwards or back. My ankles are loosely re-joined beneath the plank. I wince as someone spreads a cold jelly across my pussy.

Connie speaks again. “Well Ms Jenny. We can do this the hard way or the easy way. Easy is where you just tell us what you are up to? Huh? Hard is …” She pushes me down onto the top of the plank, which is rounded and smooth and at once there is a biting feeling in my labia. It's as if I have run my tongue across the contacts of a battery, but worse because it was so unexpected. I jump back onto my toes.

Connie continues. “Hard, is your legs get tired and you sink down onto the pony and the pony gives you a bite. Up you go, back onto your toes and then you get tired and down you go and you get bitten again, maybe harder this time. Up you go again, but not for so long because your legs are getting so tired and maybe starting to cramp and down you go and BITE! Up you go and then you really start to ride, baby! Up, down, up, down, riding the pain from your muscles and the pain from your clit. Now, I can tell you don’t believe me, do you? Well, let's give you a chance to do some thinking.”

I want to call out, “No stop, there's nothing more for me to tell you.”

Connie calls out to the others there, “Boys leave her gag and blindfold on. I don't want her to have any distractions! You, young lady, I'll give you oh, an hour – or maybe two. Enjoy!”

It all happens just as Connie said it would: my calves tire, I sink down, I feel the electric shock from the “pony” as she called it, I rise again to my toes and I am eventually forced through tiredness to sink down. Soon, I am sweating and writhing on the plank and mewing and crying and then someone comes: the electricity is turned off, the gag is unstrapped and my blindfold is removed.

Connie is there, sitting in a chair. She looks up. “Well?”

“I’m sorry,” I cry.

“Sorry for what?”

“Sorry for, I don’t know, for not telling you what you want to know.”

“We only want to know the truth.”

“Please, I want to tell you the truth.”

“The truth about what?”

“Why I went to Inward Bound, the truth about that, then you'll see there's nothing else in this.”

Connie leans forward, “So, why did you go?”

“Well, ... well....”

“Baby, I haven’t got all day. Do you want more thinking time?”

“No, no please. Look, I wanted to do the things Joe and I never do and Angela had this idea.”

“Joe and Angela, huh? Joe is an engineer isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“What does he do – exactly.”

“I don’t know, exactly.”

“Don’t know exactly? Wrong answer.” Connie gets up and leaves the room. I try to call her back, but she ignores me. I had not noticed, but the plank of the pony had been lowered by one of the Heavies, so I could stand. He raises it back up. Ahead, I can see a green LED. It changes to red and the pony bites. I’m straight back up on my toes but really struggling to stay up. The red light fades to green. I sink down. Now it's just my labia crushed against the plank. It’s a faint relief. Suddenly, the LED is red again and I’ve been bitten, hard. I’m right up on my toes again … and so it goes on. I’m working between the inescapable tiredness in my legs, and the cycling of the current and just crushing myself on the plank. Tears begin to flow again. I’m really pouring perspiration and feeling very thirsty all at the same time.

Then, Connie comes back and relief comes, of a sort. “You were saying?”

“I, I don’t really know what Joe does. Not really. Not exactly.”

“Don’t know, or don’t want to know?”

“Don’t know.”

“Jenny, do you know how much of a threat cyber terrorism is to the economy of the United States and Europe? Especially, state-sponsored cyber terrorism. Do you realise how much of a threat to the financial markets identity theft is? No. You don’t, do you? Not surprising, I guess, given that your own government can’t keep its own data safe! Do you know what we think?”

I silently shake my head.

“We think that you were recruited by your professor, or the man in the photograph, maybe. We think this gave you access to the academic networks to get cyber attacks out into the wider web. Blackmail a legitimate business by threatening to shut down its website or its accountancy or its billing software. You collaborated, because you did not want Joe to find out about you and Angela. You can’t be honest about your sexuality and you can’t stand up to Angela’s blackmail either.

I am silently shaking my head, tears in my eyes, spilling down over my cheeks.

Connie stares at me and sighs. “And, unless I start to get some honest answers, you are going to jail for years and years and years. No plea bargaining with felons who won’t face up to what they have done. Nope. Just years in jail. Don’t suppose Joe will still be around for you when you get out, will he? I mean twenty-five years is a long time to wait for someone who can’t be honest.”

And all the time, I am shaking my head and silently crying.

They take me off the pony; I am given water and then they put the gag back. They all leave. The door is locked. I am alone. Shaking. Sprawled on the floor, still blindfolded. Crying silently. Governments can’t let this happen to their own people, can they? Can they?

Chapter 23: An Uncertain Future

Inward Bound Files

Memo

From: Jo & Charlotte

To: Corinne

Jo and I are writing this because of our continuing concerns over the recent incident with Jenny McEwan. While you may have received reassurances from the US authorities or whoever it is that this is all being done legally, we are both concerned that this organisation owes a duty of care to McEwan.  We should be actively trying to either gain her release or be confident that these people have acted completely within the law.

It seems to us that we should take some legal advice on this matter because of our own involvement in McEwan's presence here. Have you had any contact with the Foreign Office, the Home Office, the Ministry of Justice or whoever this might come under that can give us any comfort on this? Should we as an organisation be trying to contact someone else that could help such as Liberty or Amnesty International or one of those other human rights organisations? Maybe even the media?

Corinne, we both think that we ought to be doing something about this and other members of staff are pretty worried, too, about one of the guests going missing on their watch.  

Memo - Confidential

From: Corinne

To: Jo & Charlotte

You are right, of course. I’m concerned about Jenny too and worried about our exposure. There’s no need to involve any other agencies. Larry tells me that his contacts say that there should be a rapid resolution. Give it a couple of days and I should get some more details. We can discuss it then.

Memo

From: Corinne

To: Larry

Larry, the whole business with Jenny McEwan is really upsetting things here. People are worried both about McEwan and their own position. I really need to be able to say something reassuring about what's going on and I can't go on saying “Larry’s contacts say it’s going to be all right”. Even if people believe it then there aren’t many that would be easy with the Americans being able to carry on like this inside our country.

I really need to be able to give them some practical comfort, or you need to get McEwan back here within the next day or two, at most.

Memo

From: Larry

To: Freddie & Elly

By way of an update, see the copy of the attached from Corinne at Inward Bound. As you can see she's pretty concerned about her ability to keep the lid on things there. I'll talk to Connie and make sure she pushes on as quickly as she can. If we can make up our minds about McEwan quickly, then I think we can contain things. I really don't want a situation in which the Inward Bound folk suddenly discover a desire to chat to the media. The alternative is that we have to come up with some sort of alternative cover story for what we're up to and I don't want to start improvising at short notice. I'll go see Corinne and the team and reassure them.

Jenny’s Recollections (Day 40):

They take me from the gymnasium and put me back in my cage. I sleep fitfully. Sometimes I'd wake and I'd be aware of someone in the room watching me.

Daylight comes. They feed me. A dish of cereal and fruit pushed into my cage and then I'm left alone.

Someone comes to check my water bottle and refills it. I'm left alone again. I'm still the only one here; still in my orange robe with the badge, “Detainee”.

They let me out of my cage to use the toilet but they put me back in straight away. No one wants to talk to me. No one will tell me how long they intend to keep me here. Then there's more food.

It's later. Connie's secretary appears, looking slightly flustered.

“Oh, good you are here. I was sure you would be.” I'm thinking, where else would I be? “Anyhow, Connie wants to see you again.” She sees the look of fear in my eyes as I back away in my cage as far from her as I can get. “No, it's all right. She doesn't want to question you. I think they've done what they need to there. Why don't you come with me?”

Done what they want? But do they believe me? Are they just going to send me away somewhere? I am relieved that there may be no more questions and sick at what might happen now and the anxiety of just not knowing. Gingerly, warily, I climb out of the cage. Connie's secretary fastens my wrists behind me, clips a leash to my collar and leads me out of the room.

She chatters away as we walk down the corridor. I'm wanting to ask her what this is all about but I don't get the chance to break in to her constant stream of talk. “You'll find Connie very helpful. She's ever so good with all the detainees ... She works too hard really but she doesn't listen to me.... I suppose she really likes what she's doing. Well, you'd have to wouldn't you? Otherwise you wouldn't put up with it.  And she's on call 24x7. I mean take you, turning up here at two in the morning. Of course she knew you were coming but you can't ever be sure what time Harry's people are going to arrive. Anyway, here we are, this is Connie's play room...”

Play room??? Now I am worried.

The room she shows me into has echoes of the one in which I first encountered Ylena. There's the same rather plush, comfortable feeling although this one has more of a Middle Eastern or Moorish feel to it. There's also the same disturbing array of paddles, floggers and whips in racks on the wall plus a lot of other stuff that makes one wall look like a display cabinet in the store that supplied the members of the Spanish Inquisition.

My escort sees the look of shock on my face at the array of 'toys'. “Now, don't you worry,” she says, “I'm sure that Connie will go easy on you, at first. She's not had such a bad day, today and you're new, of course.  Well as long as you didn't upset her when she was questioning you. You didn't, did you?  Sometimes, though, I wouldn't want to be in here for anything! Goodness you'd be surprised how irritable she can get. Takes it out on anyone that gets in her way. Now, I wonder how she'd like you?”  

In my mind, I'm begging this woman to chain me up and go away; anything to escape from the constant chatter. Eventually she comes to a conclusion. “This will do it,” she says guiding me towards a wooden pillory at one end of the room. She unfastens my wrists from behind me and strips off my robe. She positions me at the pillory and slides the wooden bar down fixing my neck and wrists in place. I'm standing, bent slightly forward, with my hands at shoulder level. The woman takes two lengths of chain and fastens them around my ankles. She pulls the chains through rings on either side of the base of the pillory until my legs are spread widely apart as far as they will go.

The woman says, “That should do.” The chain is taut and I'm standing almost immobile. “I'll let Connie know you're here. I'm sure you won't have to wait long.”

There's no rush, I think, but before I can say she's gone, leaving me alone in Connie's play room. 

I don't know what I'm expecting next. Right now I'm feeling strange. It's almost unreal; as if I've been dropped into some bizarre fetish novel. I'd pinch myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming if I could only get my hands out of the pillory. 

Given my state of confusion I'm not sure how I expect Connie to look when she comes in to the playroom. As it is she turns up dressed just as she was in the office. I'm almost disappointed but she still exudes a sexual power. In spite of my being drawn to her erotic charge. I try to protest. “What is all this? I answered your questions. I've nothing more to say.”

“Don't be silly,” she replies, softly reassuring, as if sensing my true feelings. “That was work, this is play.” She looks across at me. “Oh, good,” she's says. “I can always rely on Sarah. That's just right. Mmm, we're going to have such fun.” Somehow, I think that the fun might be a bit one sided. Connie stands quite close to me. “I get so tense after a long day,” she says. “It's a real treat to be able to unwind in here.” She unfastens the waist band of her trousers and steps out of them, unfastens her waistcoat and slips that off. She unbuttons her blouse. I'm drawn to her every move, each action is performed with the deliberate, sensuousness of a wild animal. Some sort of cat, I decide. A panther, I suppose.

“They did a lot of work on you, didn't they?” she asks, reaching out and tugging gently on one of my nipple rings. “You didn't have these before you went to Inward Bound did you? Or,” she grips my nose ring, “this.”

“No, Mistress,” I say, almost surprising myself by calling her that. I don't know why I fall so easily under her spell. This must be outside any standing orders that she, or her agency had. They can't treat detainees like this. It must be covered by the Geneva Convention or something. It's barbaric, but I don't object. 

“Very good,” smiles Connie, “at least you've learned some basic manners.” She's looking straight into my eyes - I can't look away from her hypnotic stare. She moves behind me and runs her hand, slowly down from my neck, and the other down between my breasts, across my belly and down to my sex. By the time it reaches between my thighs to part my cunt, I'm lost. I don't try to fight her as she strokes the soft flesh. To my shame I find myself pushing forward as she moves her hand away. “And not just manners, I see,” Connie grins.

“Look at this, here!” she says. I feel her touching my buttocks. I know I still carry the marks of Ylena's last beating. “This was done by someone that knows what they were doing,” she says. “And you took it too, didn't you? Evenly spaced strokes, absolutely parallel. You weren't struggling, were you?”

It never occurred to me that I'd be betrayed by the marks of Ylena's cane, but it was true. “No, Mistress,” I say remembering how I'd lain so still, desperate for each successive blow.

“This is very good work.” I feel a single finger tracing the line of one of my wheals. “In fact I think .... “ She breaks off as if she's decided on something. She goes across to one of the racks on the wall, I'm worried that what she's decided is what she's going to do with me. “I shan't beat you,” she says over her shoulder. “It would be a shame to add to that pattern. Like painting on another artist's canvas.” It's only as she turns back towards me that I realise what she is going to do. She's smiling, licking her lips in anticipation. Her white blouse is hanging open, her white bra draws my eyes to the dark chasm of her cleavage. But then my glance travels down to the great white phallus she has strapped on with a harness about her hips. “But that doesn't mean there aren't other things we can do with that pretty little bottom.”

“Nnooo!” I say, recalling the confused mix of discomfort and pleasure when Ylena had penetrated me there, “no, please don't ... “

“Ah, don't be reticent, little one” exclaims Connie, “it's so good to feel filled. But, just in case you feel a little distress, we'll use one of these. She picks up something from the rack and advances towards me. It's a ring gag. I've seen them before but the Inward Bound people haven't used one on me. I'm shaking my head as Connie reaches me, but she's is not to be denied. She pushes the ring into my mouth and twists it somehow, so that my mouth is stretched wide open. I give a strangled “Gnnng” noise. She fastens the strap at the back of my head and from behind me I feel her stroking my back and buttocks.

“There,” she says. You can cry out all you like. I so like the sound you'll make with this. Lose yourself, little one, lose yourself.” She slowly wipes some tingly lubricant across my anal bud and, as she begins to press the dildo against the cheeks of my arse, I can make only a whimper but I know I'm already losing myself to this woman. I feel the dildo press inside me, filling me more than the probe that Ylena used on me. Connie's belly is warm against my back, the cool silk of her unbuttoned blouse, brushing against me as she leans forward. “Cry for me, little one. Learn to do your best for Connie,” she whispers as she presses herself close, pushing the dildo home. She reaches around to my tits, pinching and pulling at them. I'm dribbling around the ring gag. She pulls and then presses forward again, sliding the dildo inside me. I gasp at each thrust.

..............................................

It's much later, I've been taken back to my cage, but now they wake me up.

Connie wants to talk to me again. I'm taken to her office. This time, it's all much more relaxed. She's sitting behind her desk. I'm even allowed to sit, my naked backside cold against the stiff leather of the seat that faces her.

She doesn't mention our earlier encounter. I'm staring at her as she sits, composed and relaxed.

“Now, let's have a conversation about you and the Russians.” Connie has evidently decided that continuing down the track of pressing me about Angela isn't going anywhere.

“I don't now any Russians.” I can't imagine that I'm going to be any more help to her than I have been so far.

“Curious, given that Professor Dawney is so cosy with them.”

That's true, at least. She's always off to conferences in St Petersburg, or Moscow. “She never involved me with any of her meetings.”

“Not even in the UK. She didn't get you to 'entertain' any of her Russian contacts when they were over here?”

“No!” I exclaim indignantly, although it's quite the sort of thing she might have done if she'd thought of it. “I've told you I don't know any Russians.”

“How about this man?” She pushes a photograph towards me. It’s the same photograph she showed me before.

I look at it closely. He looks familiar but I don't remember meeting him. I shake my head. “I already told you, no. I might have seen him around the university but I don't recall meeting him. Ever. Who is he?”

“But, this is someone you see often!”

“Where?”

He stands next to your Prof in the photograph on her desk. The photograph that’s been there for months. You are supposed be observant. You see, that sort of mistake makes me think you know exactly who Anatoly Kustensky is.”

It means nothing to me. I remember the photograph on Angela’s desk but I don’t remember seeing this man in it. He could have been there but I really don’t remember. I shake my head.

Connie takes back the photograph and puts it on the desk. “Do you know, I would like to believe you but it just does not wash. At some stage you are going to have to come clean about what you have been doing for him. Either now or after we ship you to our secure facility at Guantanamo, Cuba. You must have heard of it. It’s that little tropical paradise that the press and those lefty liberals reckon is some kind of hell on earth. And by the way, it can take quite a while for your case to come to trial while you rot away there. And that’s before you start your sentence” she says. Not surprisingly I’m sick with worry as I am taken back to my cage.

Another night passes. I sleep fitfully on the floor of the cage. All at once, the lights come on. Connie marches into the room, followed by a small posse of her secretary and two heavies. Whenever she appears, there is no doubt just who is in charge. It's as if she distorts the fabric of space-time  by the sheer gravitational energy of her personality.

I am in still waking up. She gazes through the bars of my cage at me, then crouches down, her face a few inches from my own. I can feel my heart sinking. What else can they want from me? What else are they going to do?

“Well, Miss Fifty, I have some good news and some not so good news. Langley has decided you might be clean after all. That’s the good news. What do you think of that?”

A very small voice comes out of me, “Can I go home now? Please?”

“Go home????”

“Well, can I go back to Inward Bound?”

“Well, maybe, that's the not so good news. You see, we might not have enough to take to Court but we have enough to make us very anxious and we just don’t feel easy about sending you back into the arms of Angela and Alexander. Then again, people are so critical of the work we do. So, we can’t just let you go and blab to the first newspaper you happen across, can we? They might not appreciate how important our work is here, mightn't they?”

I am shaking my head ……

“No, they won't. So, what's to do, Huh?”

“Please, let me go back to Inward Bound. I'll sign anything you want. I'll keep your secret. Why not?”

“Ooh, only a dozen or so reasons,” Connie smiles. “But maybe.” I don't get the impression that she's seriously considering it. “There are the other options we talked about though. Remember? Extending your contract? Finding a buyer? We know people that could put you right away from anyone you ever knew. That might be better than some of the other options. Decisions, decisions, decisions, just what to do ……”

Connie’s speech has left me feeling as if I am going to wretch. “You're joking! You must be joking.”

Connie turns to her secretary.  “Where are our friends with their next catalogue?” Connie asks her.

“I spoke to them this morning. Their sale is in two week's time, Ma'am,” she replies. “The catalogues have already gone out. They can put out a supplement, if you wanted to include this as one of the lots.”

'Sale' – maybe they are serious. 'Lots' – you can't talk about people as 'Lots', but they do. 'This' – she says, 'This.' Shouldn't it be 'Her'? I mean not that I'm encouraging them of course, but 'This'!

Connie looks pensive for a moment and then makes a decision. “Arrange for her to be appraised and valued. Get the details entered up and we'll decide in a day or so.”

What the hell is 'appraised'? Appraised is what I used to get by my head of department. These people may use perfectly ordinary language but somehow I don't think they're going to be giving me points for “problem solving ability” or “leadership skills”.

“Of course, Ma'am. One of their valuers said he could come out, if we wanted.” she responds.

Connie turns to me. She motions to two of the ever present heavies. “Give her some better accommodation. See she's fit and rested by the time the valuer turns up. I'd like to see whatever they have to say then. Clear?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” replies one of the Heavies. He has come into my cage and is taking my arm, half lifting me as he steers me towards the door.

Connie calls after us. “And, tell that valuer we aren't looking for his usual bargain basement price here. If we've got the inconvenience of having this young lady around at least we might make a few dollars on the exercise.”

This time I am taken to a new cell which has a mattress of sorts and two metal bowls on the floor, one with water and one with more muesli and water. They must use the same cook book as they do at Inward Bound. My hands are free now and I can bend over the bowls to eat and drink and at last I am left alone to sleep ….

After the cage and the hard bed at Inward Bound the mattress is almost too soft but I'm soon asleep. When I wake I feel better than I have for some time. I can get up and move around; stretch my limbs, yawn and scratch without anyone looking in on me. It's a few moments bliss but then I remember why I'm here in these 'luxurious' surroundings. They can't really be planning to sell me can they? That sort of thing doesn't go on does it? And, even if it does, a government agency couldn't be party to it. Could it?

        

There's the sound of a key in the lock of the door to the cell. I look up from my mattress as the door swings open with a crash. One of the heavies is standing in the doorway. “On your feet,” he says and stands back without waiting for a response to let a tall, quite heavily built man into the cell. He looks about forty-five with shortish curly hair. He's wearing a sports jacket over an open neck shirt and jeans.

“Is this the one?” he asks. The heavy nods. “Hmm, not too bad at first glance, I suppose. I mean, normally, we like them a little younger, but there's sometimes a buyer for something a little more mature.”

His whole attitude is like he's looking over a car in a showroom. Whatever the appalling reality of the situation; that annoys me. Mature! I mean, for fuck's sake, I'm only 28! I tell him so.

He's not pleased with my reaction and turns to the heavy. “I thought you said she'd been through training.”

The heavy shrugs. “I can cuff her if you like. There's a gag around here somewhere, too, if that's needed.”

“Let's wait and see. Listen young lady,” - he turns back to me - “in our business almost anything past twenty counts as 'mature' so I wouldn't get too upset. Now, put your hands on your head, stand still and if you don't want to spend the rest of the day chewing on a two inch rubber ball, I suggest that you find a way of restraining that nicely pierced tongue of yours.”

I'm startled by his blunt approach and quickly do as he says.

“Better,” he says. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small hand held computer. He pulls a stylus from the side and taps the screen a few times, peers at it, and mutters “fucking technology” under his breath. He walks up to me and starts examining me, jotting down notes every few moments. He checks the movement of my arms and neck, opens my mouth and prods around inside it, feels my breasts and belly, stretches a rubber glove onto his hand and prods a finger into my vagina; all without comment. He waves for me to turn around. I feel his hands running across my shoulders and back down and around my waist, he feels my buttocks, and runs his hands over my thighs and calves. “Well, physically all right, I suppose, nothing special but fit enough. Tits aren't too bad, buttocks neat enough. Nice tight arse; that will be popular.” He's chatting away to the heavy as he examines me, making notes on his PDA. “Not sure about the shaved head; some folk like that, but it's better if they get to make the choice after they've seen what the lot looks like with their hair on. And that tattoo! Not my style but pretty dramatic. It'll have some appeal, but it needs finishing off.”  Yes, I'm thinking, let me go back to Jonathan, he can do it. “She's quite intelligent, I understand. That may be a draw back of course, sometimes it means they learn quickly, mostly it just makes them stubborn. Don't kid yourself,” he says to me, “most of our buyers aren't looking for Scherazade, they're happy with a warm cunt that knows when to shut up.”

He makes some more notes on his PDA prodding at it with his stylus. He sees the scar on my forearm. “She's been chipped? Oh that's handy.” He waves the PDA over the scar. “OK, well she's on the register. Consensual, I see, but we won't let that worry us, will we?”

“Please,” I beg, “tell me this isn't happening. Tell me it's all some sort of joke.”

“It depends on your sense of humour, I suppose,” the man says with a smile. He turns back to the heavy. “I'll need to talk to your boss,” he says. “It's a bit hard to predict a price for a lot like this. I'm guessing though that the price isn't significant, you'll just be looking to move her on, so we won't bother with a reserve. Maybe you want to put a restriction on which territories she can be taken to and we need to know if it’s you or the buyer that's providing transport. Do you know?” The heavy looks blank, like he'd just been asked to explain Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. “I guess not,” the man goes on. “I'll talk to your boss. Can you get some photos of her. Usual thing; full face, both profiles, full height front and back; close up on labia and arse bud; better do one of that tattoo as well.” The heavy manages to understand this. He nods. “Otherwise, I’m finished. Thank you very much young lady. Hope to see you in the Sale Room.”

The man closes his PDA, tucks the stylus back in its case and returns it to his jacket pocket. He smiles and nods.

The two of them leave me locked in the cell; I'm more terrified than ever before.

It's late when Connie comes to my cell. She looks like she's been in her playroom, I'm glad it wasn't me she's been playing with. She's wearing a skin-tight leather cat suit, zipped open at the front almost to her waist, ankle top boots in the same white leather. Her skin by contrast seems jet black; it’s glistening slightly from the sweat of her exertions. I watch fascinated as a drop of moisture forms close to her neck and runs slowly down, diving into the crevice between her breasts. I'm almost compelled to lean forward and kiss each bead of sweat from her body.

She knows the effect that her appearance has on me. She doesn't comment or try to do anything to make it easier for me. She squats down at the foot of the mattress and smiles across at me. “I'm aware,” she purrs, in a voice smooth with the relaxation that only sexual pleasure can bring, “that we haven't talked about your options.

“I didn't think I had any,” I say, sitting up, drawing my knees up to my chin defensively. Connie, undisturbed, continues to contemplate the line of my thighs.

“Mmm, of course. I thought I said that you had..”

“I thought you had decided to 'sell' me. Whatever that means.”

Connie smiles, as though she hadn't imagined that such an idea would be anything except obvious. “What it usually means. Someone parts with money. In exchange for which they get rights, usually exclusive rights, of possession, use and disposal.”

“Of a human being?”

“In this case, yes.”

“But that's slavery for real. It's illegal. Apart from anything else, you're a government agency. You're not above the law.”

“Well, no not exactly, assuming anyone came after us. But then, who would they send? Don't worry about legality. Lots of things go on that aren't legal. You just have to worry about reality. And besides there are choices, as I said.”

“Like what?”

“Places you go to willingly. An extension of your contract. Your life will be much as it has been lately, but you will have had some control over what happens to you. You will have made the choice.”

“Such as?”

“We have contacts with members of the Royal Household in a country on the western edge of the Hindu Kush. They are looking to employ someone to help teach the household English. Someone of your intelligence would be a suitable candidate. Of course, it is a less liberal culture than you find here, so your life would not be so different from now, but for a royal concubine there...”

“Concubine! And this is supposed to be better than being sold into slavery?”

Connie shrugs. “Perhaps a role in their ministry of culture; they need English speakers. Of course your duties would include serving the Minister, as well as the Ministry, if you see what I mean...”

“No, not that. No.”

“There are other possibilities. We have contacts in Zimbabwe. I know someone looking for a house servant. In fact, they are specifically looking for an English woman. I think they quite like the idea of the previous colonial rulers in a position of subservience.” Connie licked her lips. “There are other contacts in Korea, The Gulf States, Colombia,.... If you prefer a more physical assignment there is .... “

“I'm assuming this is some kind of brothel?”

“Oh, no, actually, I was thinking of something else entirely, but if that were to be your preference than there are plenty of ...”

“No, no! How is any of this better than being sold?”

“You make a choice. You go willingly. That means flying in the cabin of an aircraft not unconscious in the hold. You travel with a minder, not in a crate. You aren't kept in restraints, as long as you show no sign of wishing to abscond or of not conforming to the terms of your agreement. You'd only be punished for a significant breach of rules. We'd stay in touch with your contract holder. Well, as long as we could. You probably wouldn't be sold on. ”

“Only probably?”

“Well, we can't guarantee what happens in some of these places. Once you're out of our jurisdiction, there's not much we can do but, for what it's worth, we're talking about people that have an interest in keeping us happy, so they're not going to get too far out of line if there's an agreement in place.”

“And, if I'm sold?”

“Well, then it's down to whoever buys you. We don't control the auctions. You could be lucky and get bought by someone as a companion for their aged uncle in his twilight years.” I must have looked unbelieving. “No, you're right, it’s not very likely. Mostly it's for sex. Usually, somewhere primitive. Just for as long as it takes to get tired of you and then you're back in the auction room, with a slightly cheaper price tag going to a slightly rougher buyer and so on and so on.”

I'm staring at her in horror. It's true then. I can choose to be a slave or I can be taken as one. I can make a choice of my owner or have my owner choose me. I can accept that I am someone's chattel, or I will be taken as one anyway. I guess my bleak expression lets Connie know that I have understood the choices.

“I know it's difficult,” she says, standing up. The frisson of sexual desire I felt at her arrival has been dispelled by the horror of the situation. “But, you don't have to decide right now. We're getting the appraisal and valuation anyway. If you're not going to be sold at least that way we'll know what you would have fetched on the open market. Have a think about extending your contract. I probably shouldn't say this, but I think that might be the best way for you - being that bit older, you'll be starting off with a disadvantage. Oh, and if you could remember a bit more about exactly what your Prof and her mysterious friend wanted you to do, that would be very helpful indeed. To someone in your position.”

She winks at me.

I nod. In this lunatic's discussion, of course I can see that her logic is impeccable. I cannot fault her analysis, but I still fall sobbing as she leaves my room.    

© Copyright Freddie Clegg & Phil Lane 2008

All rights reserved.  Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.

E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com  

Web Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/

All characters  & organisations fictitious

Acknowledgements

Phil & Freddie would like to acknowledge the help given by the editors in creating the final version of this tale. Many thanks to Dennis, Peter, Red & Rohanna for their input, corrections and suggestions. If there are any typos, punctuation mistakes, inconsistencies or continuity errors left in Thesis then they are Phil’s and Freddie’s fault!