CHAPTER ONE

 

Samantha scarcely dared breathe as the guard's footsteps drew close. Flattening herself, she blended with the shadows against the office wall. The camera containing the photos she had just taken was back in its guise of a petite ladies cigarette lighter. She tensed her arm to a rigid block, crouching slightly on the balls of her feet. If his footfalls stopped by her she would leap out and, with the element of surprise, chop him with a blow to his larynx.

At first sight an observer might consider that such a beautiful girl was better suited to a catwalk than the deadly loneliness of hand to hand combat in enemy territory. Her long dark hair, which normally framed her pretty face, was presently tucked under the hood of a black cat-suit. The long slim fingers, made to hold the elegant stem of a champagne glass or caress a man's chest and slide lovingly over his throbbing penis, now tightly gripped a garrotte wire, which in training had proved to be deadly in her hands.

Her heart raced, her bowels were hot. If using a toilet had been a practical possibility she would have done so at that moment. Although trained for such situations she didn't enjoy the first reality. She was frightened, the adrenaline coursing through kept her natural femininity in check, making her resist the urge to crouch in a foetal ball and wait for the nightmare to end. At twenty-two most girls of her age, out in the early hours in a hot foreign country, would be clubbing or romancing. But most girls were not British secret agents in a hostile land.

Her experienced partner had been laid low just hours ago by a mundane bout of food poisoning but there was only one opportunity to take photos of the incriminating documents in the Ministry of the Interior - and Samantha had to take it alone. Was it only last night, she recollected, when they had slowly lost interest in running over their plan of action for the mission?

Mitch's hand had brushed hers, the electricity seeming to jump between their fingers. When his lips slowly descended on to her mouth, they had opened into one sweet, warm hotbed of desire. She tilted her head, greedily receiving his lips, their tongues entwining and probing, exploring together. She threw her arms around his neck and curved her body against his so they stood in the small hotel room, his throbbing root against the heat of her loins. He lovingly stroked through the silk of her hair to touch her ears and the urgently sucking hollows of her cheeks. With an impish wriggle she managed that feminine trick of sliding off her panties, parting her legs and rubbing the bare heat of her pubis against the bulge of his trousers in one easy movement, her mouth barely leaving his.

She recalled him easing his now considerable length from its constriction and the hands gripping each cheek of her bottom, lifting and drawing her onto him. After that wonderful stretching feeling of being totally filled, her loins jerked in frantic unison with his whilst she ripped down his trousers to clasp the hard mounds of his rump, pulling him deeper into her furnace.

Although that initial bout had been over in almost frantic haste they had later lain naked in each other's arms. The moonlight cast enticing shadows on the curved hollow of her spine and the swelling of her buttocks. He gently stroked them as she undulated on top of him to her third orgasm, cheeks hollowed as she sucked and nibbled the tight red buds of his nipples before sleeping in the strong comfort of his arms.

She vaguely wondered what the guard had been doing last night. Had he enjoyed it too? Was he young or old? For one of them it could have been their last night on Earth.

Then the footsteps receded and she took a shuddering breath of relief. The retracing of her steps out of the office, the building and the deserted streets had not of course been easy but her spirits soared as if descending from a steep mountain of fear.

She dare have no further contact with Mitch in hospital in case anyone had become curious about the Westerner or he had said anything in delirium. She had already taken the precaution of moving to a different hotel room where she changed back into her normal clothing, dumping her cat-suit and garrotte in a dustbin, before heading for the airport. She had informed the British Embassy and he should be well enough to travel home in a few days. A glow of pride warmed her face. In the end, she had completed her first mission by herself and against all the odds.

Trying to control her racing heart, she painted a carefree expression on her face as the sleepy airport customs official gazed at her passport. She imagined her cover story of a social visit to a friend in the British Embassy would hold up. But if they searched her bag would they spot the camera - now with its incriminating evidence? Maybe Mitch had been given drugs and had inadvertently given something away. Maybe they had circulated her description?

Then a group of bearded Arab youngsters swaggered past towards embarkation, thankfully distracting the customs man. He stamped her passport and she was away and boarding.

Samantha was now totally relaxed, listening to Boyzone on her personal stereo. After a short flight they picked up more passengers, holidaymakers from a Mediterranean airport. She was going home, mission accomplished. Her superiors would be very interested in the photos of the documents showing the proof of a plot against the dictator. It would be useful as a bargaining chip either to help or overthrow him depending on a politician's current whim, she thought wryly.

Then shouting interrupted her musing and a sickening feeling intruded in her thoughts.

"No talking! No moving! Remain in seats. All place hands on head, lean forward, heads on laps!" the hijacker demanded, brandishing a gun wildly in the air to emphasise his shouted commands.

CHAPTER TWO

 

"Have passports ready. Stand when I tell you, we search!" Two of the bearded hijackers, wild eyed youths, snarled at the silent hostages in broken English.

Samantha cursed, extracting her passport and, after clutching the camera/lighter anxiously in moist palms, she discreetly slipped it to the bottom of her handbag, edging it under the seat.

They were getting nearer. She carefully lifted her eyes slightly to see the look of fear and loathing on the face of a pretty teenage girl in the aisle. She stood, legs apart arms raised with white knuckles gripping the overhead lockers whilst an Arab patted down her body. The other Arab cradled his gun, smirking at the expression on her face.

"Don't!" she hissed as he squeezed her fulsome breasts.

"Keep still." He smiled whilst wrenching her back in position, hands smoothing down her tee-shirt before sliding over her jeans and patting her bottom.

"Sit. Next." It continued until a pretty woman with tousled blonde hair in Samantha's row had to stand in the aisle whilst the crude stranger casually, arrogantly felt her body in public. Totally in control, his hands moved over the mounds of her breasts and the pert curves of her bottom. Samantha sensed the impotent tenseness in the husband sitting beside her before, red faced, the woman resumed her seat.

Samantha held her breath but returned the stare of the Arab who snatched her passport, comparing the picture with the reality before dumping it into a bag. She could relax slightly. The passport simply said, 'Government Official' and she would trot out her normal cover story of an Inland Revenue clerk if ever they asked. They didn't. She simply gritted her teeth under the marauding hands, shutting off her mind from the liberties they took. Her mobile phone was wrenched from its waistband clip and also tossed into the bag with all of the other passports, phones and wallets. The bastards yanked undone the last couple of buttons of her long black skirt to facilitate their hands on her long bare limbs beneath. She was unable to meet the curious eyes of her fellow passengers as they were treated to a view of the sky blue satin panties moulded to her curves.

It was over. She relaxed back into anonymity with the other passengers exchanging whispers of relief with the blonde woman and her husband. Backs crying for release from their bent posture, they had been flying for hours, helpless pawns in whatever power game was being played out. Now, as they were ordered to close the window blinds, they pondered the destination they were obviously descending to.

As normal her heart raced slightly as they landed. But instead of the subsequent relief, the tenseness continued as their plane squatted on the tarmac whilst negotiations continued, not even knowing which country they were in. No longer human in the strictest sense, they had less control or influence over their destiny than straw in the wind. Confined helplessly in their own claustrophobic, fearful world, they were totally isolated from the rest of civilisation. Shots were fired but no one told them what was going on. They were given food but had to eat in silence and had the shame of being escorted as required to the lavatories, the doors of which remained open.

Samantha knew that if they remained in place for another few hours the SAS, who would be inevitably following, would act. It would then at least be over with a 95% probability of all the passengers being safe. She relaxed a little.

Then came the frustration of another take-off with hopes of an immediate rescue receding. The hijackers, though, were jubilant.

"The decadent Western powers have released two of our gallant freedom fighters and will negotiate the release of the others when we land again. Rejoice. I didn't hear you. I want you all to cheer," a hijacker demanded. "Your lives may be safe."

The passengers managed a subdued and ragged cheer to keep their captors satisfied before returning to the enforced silence and painful bent postures. The only change to the routine was the men being segregated from the women. The blonde woman, whose name she learnt was Rebecca, stayed next to Samantha, casting fearful glances at her husband as they made their way to a forward cabin, the curtains swishing closed behind them. Again they had to lean forward in their seats, obscuring their vision, hands clasped to their necks. Drawing on her training, Samantha assured Rebecca that it was simply that the hijackers knew their captives would be less likely to cause trouble if they couldn't be sure where their loved ones were. Rebecca whispered that she too had come from the same Arab country as herself, helping out on an aid programme whilst her husband took the opportunity of sightseeing. Seeing a possible cover story should things go bad, Samantha whispered urgently to the blonde. She hurriedly explained that although just a boring Ministry clerk, she was nevertheless a Government official and it would cause less fuss to say she had been in the country on humanitarian business too.

 

***

 

"When your name is called those selected will come forward for questioning," announced one of the Arabs, standing in the aisle between the two cabins. "You bring with you all your hand-baggage. If anything left in locker or under seat all those in that vicinity are punished."

Samantha again cursed inwardly. But even if they picked her, surely the chances of them finding the lighter suspicious were remote. A name was called out approximately every quarter hour, all obviously rich, elegantly dressed men and women, each returning flushed and crestfallen.

"Samantha Bond," the tannoy announced.

Her belly flipped. An Arab was already coming for her. Reluctantly she retrieved her handbag, not wanting Rebecca to attract any suspicion. The blonde gave Samantha a tight, anxious smile, patting her hand as she was led away.

 

***

 

Mohamed, the hijackers' leader, relaxed in a chair behind a desk in the crew's quarters, a pile of passports and seat locations beside him. He smiled inwardly at the obvious discomfort on the once arrogant face of the young English stockbroker who stood the other side of the desk. This unease might have been because the man was issuing instructions by phone to his bank to transfer a large sum of money to the hijackers' Swiss bank account. Alternatively, perhaps, because he stood, hands on head, dressed only in his pair of ridiculous, red Mickey Mouse underpants, his pin stripe suit crumpled in a heap at his feet. Or maybe it was that whilst a bearded hijacker held the phone to the man's ear, his other hand gently patted the stockbroker's backside, dirty fingers sliding around the elastic of his pants. Whatever, Mohamed was awaiting the next passenger, interested by the gorgeous face which stared back at him from her passport.

The curtain swished aside and another bearded figure escorted the beautiful dark haired English girl into the cubicle. Her eyes widened in surprise and fear at the spectacle before her, the sensuous lips parting slightly as she licked them nervously. The stockbroker hesitated in his transactions, obviously wanting to regain some dignity before the beautiful girl but his bearded tormentor simply pushed him to one side, growling at him to continue.

"Good afternoon, Miss Bond, I'm sorry about all of this, the gentleman here will be finished soon. I am Captain Mohamed, leader of Arab Liberation Army - who have liberated this aircraft. I'd like you to remove your skirt and blouse please."

"Wh-what?" the girl's hand automatically covered her breasts.

"It's quite simple. We have only a limited amount of time to question those selected and a man or woman who is undressed will be far less inclined to withhold the truth or be stubborn. If you are honest and co-operative no harm will come to you. I'd advise you to obey my order or my colleagues will do it for you but far less pleasantly."

"But please, why me, I ..."

"Please Miss Bond, Samantha, I have no time for games, I have my reasons. Undress and stand with your hands on your head - now or I lose patience."

Without further ado she lowered her eyes and, face flushed, began unbuttoning her blouse. He admired her sense in knowing the futility of resistance, guessing he was not wrong about the quality of this girl. His judgement told him there was something about her besides just beauty. That too was now obvious though as she obediently stood before him in a tiny clinging blue bra and pants which left little to the imagination.

"Hands!" He pointed upwards.

Mohamed felt his loins tighten in appreciation as she clasped her hands to the back of her neck which automatically thrust her breasts out. He could see the hard dents of her nipples under the thin satin.

Ever since his days as a poor university student in London he had wanted beautiful Western women but inevitably, after a few dates, his curiosity value had diminished and they would rejoin English society. Now, with the power brought by terrorism, he had the chances to put right such wrongs and make those women his own.

"No!" She jerked away as a bearded hijacker placed his hand familiarly around her waist.

"You are doing well so far, Miss Bond, don't make things bad for yourself now. The rules are that your hands remain clasped to your neck, whatever. Pretend they are fixed with super-glue, that you cannot move them. As I am now in control of this flight you will also address me as Captain. Failure to obey these simple rules, to tell anything but the truth or offer less than full co-operation will result in things happening which I guarantee you will regret. Do you understand this?"

"Yes Captain," she forced through a rigid jaw, thankful that the hand was now still.

"Excellent, then if the gentleman is finished ..." He watched as, the financial transaction completed, the man struggled back into his clothes to be escorted away. The stockbroker's angry eyes nevertheless swept over Samantha's rigid, scantily clad figure.

"Full name and address, Samantha?"

She gave the familiar details, now so out of context in her present circumstances. Shivering despite the warmth, she felt so vulnerable, practically nude before the Captain as he tipped the contents of her handbag onto the desk. Although not looking directly at it, her concentration on the fake lighter was so total that she easily ignored the bearded youth's hand patting her bottom. This far, her mission virtually over, and now these amateur thugs could ruin everything she thought bitterly!

"Age, parents, occupation?" they were casual questions as the man rifled her belongings.

Samantha answered, thankful that he gave the lighter only cursory attention. He smiled over some of the entries in her diary, her hands clenching in frustration as he calmly intruded in her life whilst the youth's hands roamed freely over her exposed flesh. She knew that she had the capability of smashing him aside and overpowering him - but what of the other hijackers - and the other passengers. She could do nothing. The captain ignored her molestation whilst he examined her things. He was older than his bearded colleagues, but quite handsome. When he leaned forward she smelt his expensive musk after-shave. She could tell that he was sophisticated, shrewder and more calculating than the others.

"How much money in your account? We can check."

"About five thousand pounds Captain," she answered truthfully, but guessing that they had no real way of establishing that one way or the other. Hence their shrewd psychological interrogation technique - not many would offer resistance or be devious when standing nearly naked before armed men.

"You're a public servant I see. Doing what?"

"Inland Revenue." She felt a prickle of perspiration on her brow and could smell the sweat of fear lingering in the cubicle from the previous victims mixing with the leader's musk.

"Yet you were recently in a certain Arab country normally hostile to yours, my colleagues recognised you at the airport there and your passport entry confirms it! That is why I wanted us to talk so frankly. Why?"

"Partly a social visit. I was visiting a friend in the British embassy - but I'm also on secondment to an aid agency, Captain, a sort of working holiday." Samantha gave details of the aid programme that Rebecca had mentioned. Then her heart leapt to her mouth when the man's attention returned to the lighter.

"You've no cigarettes. Do you smoke?"

"I'm trying to stop, Captain, just given up," she smiled coyly.

"Hands."

As she slowly held them out he grabbed one, inspecting it closely.

"No nicotine!"

"Oh ... I never smoked that much."

"Hands back on your neck. Why then the smart ladies' lighter?"

She had to cover her tracks, he was showing too much interest in it, but it was difficult to think clearly with the rough fingers of the young thug trailing round the waistband of her panties, painfully snapping the elastic against her flesh, humiliatingly delving slightly between the cheeks of her bottom.

"I found it actually - it was rolling on the cabin floor. Stupid ... you know ... I just thought that if I ever started smoking again Captain, I'd be ready ..."

He had lost interest in her words and instead tugged at the lighter until the camera was revealed. Samantha's eyes closed in frustration and fury. She could only hope that they would inadvertently expose the film, never to reveal its secrets to the wrong people.

"Seems you have stumbled across an interesting gadget," he smiled up at her, amusement and victory flitting across his face.

"What the hell is it?" she feigned surprise. "Aghh!" A hand painfully cuffed the back of her head, jolting her forward.

"Respect to the Captain, back in place," the bearded hijacker made her resume her position, head swimming.

"That's what we'll have to see," he purred. "I wonder what's on it and who left it on the floor?" he stared at her shrewdly, then at his passenger seating list. "Meanwhile, I've taken your cash, I'll kindly have you transfer money from your accounts to mine. Give the details of your bank to my colleague, we have fax facilities on board, you just sign." He asked his men to summon his next victim. Samantha's thoughts were in a turmoil as, still standing in her underwear, hands on head like a naughty girl, she provided the bearded Arab with the required account details. At least his hands were not on her body. Her belly quaked when Rebecca was brought in. They exchanged rapid glances and Samantha looked earnestly, pleadingly at the blonde.

"Welcome, Mrs Perrit, please remove your dress."

"My-my d-dress?" Rebecca stuttered one hand to her shocked mouth, the other smoothing down the long green garment clinging to her curves.

"Be a good lady like your friend here or you'll be punished," the leader spoke without bothering to look up, examining Rebecca's papers whilst a young Arab tugged at the zip on her dress.

"Please," she grabbed the youth's hand.

Slap!

"Oh," she sobbed pressing her hand to her thigh, smarting from the Arab's hand.

"Strip and stand like your friend here. In fact it's because you know her that you are here. Last chance," the Captain now looked irritated.