Spy Woman: Deadly to Know

Russian Roulette is not the same without a gun.

Lady Gaga in her hit-song 'Pokerface'.

Which, at the end of an old man's long life, must be to

take a trip back to where all life originates, and try
hard to know the mysteries and wonders of that place.
Ancient Scriptures of Kali, Hindu Goddess of Death.

Prologue

Maryam's black family had migrated from a French African

Colony to the United States in 1947, just after the end
of the Second World War, as their homeland was hit by
unrest aimed at winning independence from France. Her
family were well-educated people who had worked for the
Colonial authorities and French companies. They weren't
against the idea of independence, but as many of the
politicians calling for independence were crooks, the
family decided to migrate to America before the crooks
took over their African homeland.

The main reason the family was admitted to the United

States was because Maryam's father had fought with the
Free French against Nazi Germany in the Second World War.
Her Dad had been one of the black Free French soldiers
who took part in the D-Day Landings in Normandy. On June
6, 1944, he'd stepped from a landing-craft onto Omaha
Beach and by some miracle he'd survived the landmines,
explosive mortar-shells and machinegun-fire which the
German Army had rained-down upon the beach. Three weeks
later Maryam's Dad had won a medal for saving a US Army
patrol outside Cherbourg, when he'd used hand-grenades
and a machinegun to kill the nine German soldiers who
were attacking the patrol.

Arriving in the USA in January 1947, the extended African

family had settled in Flint, Michigan, where Maryam's Dad
was employed at an automobile plant, while her mother
worked in the plant's canteen. Maryam's older sister
Katherine was born in June 1947, followed by Maryam in
May 1949. In 1954 the family moved to Centreville,
Virginia, not far from Washington DC, where Maryam's
father had taken a job as an Interpreter at the State
Department.

One advantage of coming from a French Colony in north-

central Africa was that both of Maryam's parents were
fluent in French and Arabic, as well as English. As their
daughters grew-up they would learn how to speak, read and
write all of these languages, plus some African ones.

In June 1956, Maryam's Dad bought a brand-new Chevrolet

station-wagon after cashing-in some of the gold-bars the
family had smuggled into America when they migrated.
During the Summer holidays in August 1956, Dad packed his
family into their huge new car and took them on a road-
trip from Centreville back to Flint, Michigan. The first
leg of the trip was north-east on Highway 95 to Baltimore
and Philadelphia, then on to New York City. The family
booked into a hotel in Brooklyn for two days and used the
Subway to explore the vast sprawling metropolis.

Dad's language skills had been noticed at the State

Department and he'd been offered promotion to a job as
Translator. The 'catch' was that the job was in New York
City. So, apart from taking Katherine and Maryam to see
the Big Apple, their parents wanted to see what New York
City was like, and if they could make a home for their
family there.

As a seven year-old, Maryam's impression of New York City

was of a crazy overcrowded place, populated by highly-
stressed and bad-tempered people, all in a hurry to get
someplace and prepared to step on anyone who got in their
way. Maryam didn't like the city at all, and neither did
her sister or her parents.

After two days the black family was glad to leave New
York City and their holiday road-trip continued along
Highway 87 to Albany, the town which is the Capital of
New York State. From Albany they followed Highway 90 west
through Utica and Syracuse to Buffalo, where they
checked-in to a cabin at a trailer-park.

Nearby was the famous Niagara Falls, where they spent a

day sightseeing. They'd gone on a tour-boat on the
Niagara River, which at that point forms the border
between the United States and Canada. From the boat they
saw the 2600-foot wide Canadian Falls, and the somewhat
smaller American Falls. Back on dry land, they had lunch
in a cafe in the Canadian town of Niagara Falls, then
crossed a footbridge to reach it's sister-town, also
called Niagara Falls, which is located on the United
States side of the river. Later they went on a guided-
tour inside the Cave of the Winds, a natural cavern at
the base of the American Falls, where you stand behind an
enormous (and deafening) curtain of falling water.
They'd spent the night in their cabin at the Buffalo
trailer-park and next day followed Highway 90 along the
southern shore of Lake Erie to Cleveland, Ohio, then
drove west to Toledo. The family spent the night in a
motel in Toledo and next day were planning to drive west,
cross the State border into Indiana, then turn right and
head north into Michigan. Most of their extended black
African family still lived in Flint, Michigan, and the
girls' maternal grandparents were looking forward to
seeing them. They were driving west on Highway 90 in the
far-north of Indiana, looking for the turn-off to
Michigan, when it happened.

Although Maryam's mother was a good driver, her Dad had

refused to share the driving on this trip. It was stupid
__ some kind of 'macho' thing on her father's part __ and
potentially lethal if he fell asleep at the wheel. That
didn't happen, but what did happen was Dad got so tired
he left Highway 90 without realizing it, ended up on some
rural back-roads and got lost in an area of lakes and
waterways. At a signpost indicating the way to Angola,
Indiana, they turned right, and from the back-seat Maryam
made her first announcement.

'I know this place, Mommy. I've been here before.'

Turning around in her seat to look at her seven year-old

daughter, Maryam's mother smiled. 'You've never been
here, honey. None of us have. When we moved from Michigan
to Virginia, we rode on the train. Remember?'

'Yes, I know that Mommy,' Maryam rolled her eyes

impatiently. 'Slow down, Daddy. The road goes down a hill
to some water, and at the bottom the bridge is old and
skinny, and sometimes you have to wait to get across.'
Within minutes the road they were on headed downhill and
at the bottom of the hill there was a creek with an old
wooden bridge over it. The bridge was narrow, only able
to handle one vehicle at a time, and a farm-truck was
coming across from the other side, so they had to wait.

Maryam's parents exchanged glances but said nothing, as

they waited for the farm-truck to clear the bridge.

After they'd crossed the narrow bridge and were driving

on a dirt road between farms, Maryam piped-up again.
'We're near the burned-down house. Then we'll go past the
house on the hill that has a stripey yellow-and-brown
roof.'
Sure enough, another five minutes of driving brought them
to the blackened and rusting steel-frame of a farmhouse
that had burned-down. To judge by the trees and shrubs
that were growing up through the ruins, the house must
have burned down decades ago. A few minutes later they
passed a farmhouse which sat on top of a small hill. The
farmhouse had a corrugated-iron roof that was painted
with yellow and brown stripes, just like Maryam had said.

Dad was amazed, but he continued driving, while Maryam's

mother turned to stare at her. Sitting on the back-seat
beside Maryam, eight year-old Katherine turned to her
younger sister in puzzlement.

'How did you know about that stuff?' Katherine asked.

'I just remember,' Maryam said. Then her pretty brown

face broke into a big grin, and she gave that crazy
little laugh of hers. 'We're coming to the Pink Pig! Slow
down Daddy!'

Her father applied the brakes, the big Chevrolet station-

wagon slowed down and a few minutes later they saw it, up
ahead on the left. A long time ago the General Store in
the nearby town of Angola had sold 'sides of ham' in
large tin boxes that were shaped like a pig, and a farmer
was using one of these boxes as his letterbox. After
painting it with pink primer, he'd cut a hole in the
metal box to accept mail, then nailed the box to a
fencepost on the road in front of his farmhouse. The Pink
Pig looked as if it had been there for many years.

After parking next to the Pink Pig letterbox, Maryam's

father got out of the car and slowly walked up to it.
When Maryam, Katherine and their mother left the car to
join him, Dad was staring at the Pink Pig and touching it
with his hand, as if to reassure himself this was real,
and that it wasn't a dream. Then Maryam saw something
that she had never seen before: her Daddy was crying. She
walked up to her father and held his hand, and he stood
there, staring down at his seven year-old daughter.

'How did she know this would be here?' Dad turned to his
wife. Mom shook her head, came to him and patted his
chest, then rested her head against his shoulder.

'How did you know, Maryam?' Katherine asked her little

sister.

'I remembered,' Maryam shrugged.

'But you couldn't have remembered,' Katherine pointed
out, 'you haven't been here before.' With the
singleminded determination of an eight year-old,
Katherine intended to find out how her kid sister had
known about this stuff.

When Maryam didn't respond, Katherine began shouting at

her. 'You've never been here before, Maryam. You've never
been here in your life.'

'Not this time,' Maryam struggled to explain what she

meant. 'I didn't live here this time. I lived here the
time before. I was a white girl then.'

Hearing this, her father's entire body began to shake. He

couldn't remember ever being so scared, not even twelve
years earlier, on D-Day 1944, when he'd survived the
bullets, mortar-shells and landmines on Omaha Beach.

Maryam's Mom and Dad were Roman Catholics, as their

families had been for generations, but living in Africa
they'd heard stories about the Old Ways which prevailed
before the French brought Christianity to the region. The
'bad old days' when you could pay a male Witch-Doctor to
put a Curse or Hex on your enemy. When Voodoo Priestesses
used White Magic to heal the sick and tell the future by
reading your palm. But the same Voodoo Priestesses also
used Black Magic spells, potions and incantations to
kill, send people crazy, fill them with desire, or make
them burst into flames.

Maryam had just had a Vision, and her father remembered

the African stories about Visionaries. Frequently, such
men and women had a fascination with Spiritualism and the
Occult, and their interest lay with the dangerous side of
things. Maryam had been born in mid-May 1949, so her
Zodiac Sign was Taurus. But the Western Zodiac hasn't
been adjusted to allow for two thousand years of Stellar
Drift, so when Maryam was born it had actually been the
Constellation of Aries that was overhead, not the
Constellation of Taurus.

There was no doubt in her father's mind that Maryam was

an Aries. By age seven it was already clear she was a
'natural leader': fearless and assertive, but also
impulsive and a risk-taker. Her father felt that because
of this, plus Maryam having Visionary abilities, she
would be difficult to handle as she grew older.

Unfortunately, her father was right.

Chapter 1

TWELVE YEARS LATER

Friday, June 7, 1968.

Town of Marsa Matruh, on Egypt's Mediterranean coast.

The office of the Marsa Matruh Camping Ground opened at

seven in the morning and closed at seven in the evening,
seven days a week. The Owner and Manager of the camping
ground was a fifty year-old Egyptian man who looked
older, for his face had been lined and aged by the things
he loved the most: the Sun, the Sea, women and cigars. He
was a Muslim who believed life was a gift from Allah that
was meant to be enjoyed. For if life was not meant to be
enjoyed, why would the all-merciful Allah have conferred
the 'gift of life' upon humans in the first place?

The Manager also loved his country, just as he despised

those who would do harm to Egypt or her people. There
were religious fanatics who wanted to kill tourists so as
to cut-off contact with the outside world, but such acts
damaged Egypt's economy and it also involved murdering
innocent civilians, which the Koran forbids. Other
fanatics mutilated young girls' genitals, thinking it
would deny the girl pleasure and so make her 'pure'. But
if girls are created by Allah, mutilating them must
offend Allah, and those doing the mutilations were
destined to burn in Hell. The Camping Ground Manager
believed that because life is a precious gift from Allah,
people should stop following sick ideas and try to live
without doing harm. Most fanatics would go to their
graves having never really 'lived', and the Manager
thought it was a terrible waste.

At 8.00 AM that Friday morning he sat at his desk in the

camping ground office examining two photos he'd taken
with his Polaroid camera: one of an Egyptian Intelligence
'Wanted' poster that he'd photographed two weeks ago; the
other of a British Drivers License that he'd photographed
fifteen minutes ago. In 1969, British Drivers Licenses
didn't have a photo of the License-holder, but the
written details on the License matched those on the
'Wanted' poster, and the Englishman who'd booked into
Cabin 15 looked just like the man on the 'Wanted' poster,
who was said to be a British spy and assassin. Closing
his office-door for privacy, the Camping Ground Manager
picked up the telephone on his desk and called a number
in Cairo. It was answered by a woman who asked him some
questions, then he was put through to a man.
'Yes?' the man's harsh rasping voice asked in Arabic.

'I'm the Manager of the camping ground in Marsa Matruh.

An Englishman named Robert Fordyce has just booked-in to
one of my cabins. Does that interest you?'

'Can you positively identify this man?'

'Yes,' The Manager said. 'When he checked-in I asked to

see his Drivers License, took it into my back-room and
photographed it with a Polaroid camera, one that produces
a photo within five minutes. I have the photo of his
Drivers License in front of me now, and the details are
as follows. Name: Robert Waylon Fordyce. Address: Flat D,
5 Ninepence Lane, London, England. Date of Birth:
February 5, 1927. Which makes him forty-one years old.
Occupation: Civil Servant. Eyes: blue. Hair: brown.
Height: 5 feet 10 inches (178 centimeters). Build:
muscular. British Drivers License number: 53452692.
License expiry: February 10, 1970.'

'That's definitely him. Where is he right now?'

'In Cabin 15 at Marsa Matruh Camping Ground. He's driving

a black Austin Seven sedan. Libyan number-plates: 1549.'

'An Austin Seven?' the rasping voice sounded surprised.

The Austin Seven was an old British car from the 1920s,
with a strong chassis under it that was made from steel
girders. They didn't make cars like that any more.

'The car is old but it has no rust, no major oil-leaks.'

'How can you tell?'

'New paint can hide rust, but this car still has it's
original paint-job, and there is no sign of rust. When Mr
Fordyce was checking-in the car sat on concrete in front
of my office for ten minutes, and I noticed later there
were no new oil-stains on the concrete.'

'You know about cars, do you?' the harsh voice asked.

'Yes, I maintain my own car. And my boat.'

'Of course. You're in Marsa Matruh, which is on the

Mediterranean coast. What sort of boat have you got?'

'A forty-foot cabin-cruiser with twin engines, named

Tangier,' the Manager said proudly. 'She's moored at the
Marsa Matruh Marina, not far from my camping ground.'
'Do you use the boat for fishing?' the raspy voice asked.

'When I was younger I sailed that boat to Greece, Italy

and France,' the Manager said. 'In Summer the women in
Europe lie on the beaches in bikinis, and as my boat is
quite impressive I persuaded some of them to come aboard.
I had a great time in that boat, I can tell you.'

The harsh-voiced man liked this guy. 'You must have been
rich to enjoy a lifestyle like that.'

'Well,' the Camping Ground Manager admitted, 'I used to

bring certain cargoes back to Egypt in the boat. For
cash.'

'Smuggling,' the rasping voice said. It was a statement,

not a question, and delivered in an even tone, without
accusation or rancor. 'You must know some interesting
people.'

'Yes . . . ,' the Manager hesitated, 'but they're as old

as I am. We were lucky to quit while we were ahead.'

'To be honest,' the rasping voice said, 'I run a unit of

Egyptian Intelligence which officially does not exist,
and a man of your talents Could be useful to me.'

The Camping Ground Manager chuckled. 'The last time I

smuggled-in cigarettes I was caught by the Egyptian Navy.
Luckily I knew the Captain of the Navy boat and he let me
go with a warning. He told me to find a new hobby, gave
me your phone number, and said good money was available
for those with sharp eyes who want to defend Egypt. Tell
me, if your Intelligence Unit does not officially exist,
how does the Egyptian Government pay you?'

'We're in the Government Budget,' the harsh voice said,

'but hidden under many false identities, and under each
identity we receive Government money. We're listed as a
Child-Care Center with the Department of Families, as a
Locust-Plague Research Lab by the Agriculture Ministry,
as an Artist's Retreat by the Ministry of the Arts, and
as a Lunatic Asylum by the Department of Health. That
last one is actually a good description of what it's like
around here sometimes.'

At the other end of the line the Camping Ground Manager

was laughing. Then the harsh-voiced man became serious.
'When did Fordyce arrive at your camping-ground?'
'At 7.45 this morning.' The Manager glanced up at the
clock on the wall of his office. 'Twenty minutes ago.'

'Can you tell me anything else about him?'

The Manager cleared his throat. 'When he checked-in, he

asked me if I could get him a prostitute for this
evening.'

'Have you made any arrangements?' The hoarse voice asked.

'No, I wanted to speak with you first.'

'Good. Did he say what type of woman interests him?'

The Manager thought about it. 'He mentioned a prostitute

in Rawalpindi. He said the sex was so good he forgot
about eating, and after spending a week with her he'd
lost thirty pounds in weight.'

The harsh-voiced man laughed so loudly that his secretary

opened his office-door to check on him. He spoke to her
for a moment, then came back on the phone. 'Rawalpindi is
in Pakistan, which is just like India, except the people
are Muslims. What does that tell you about Fordyce?'

'That he's okay with Muslim women.' The Camping Ground

Managed paused. 'And he must be okay with black women.
Pakistanis are dark-skinned, aren't they?'

'Yes they are,' the harsh-voiced man was impressed by the

Camping Ground Manager. 'Delay things until it's dark
tonight, when there will be fewer people on the streets.
If Fordyce objects to the delay, tell him that Marsa
Matruh is a small town in a Muslim country, and the girl
has to be careful. Tell him you can get a black girl to
meet him at eight o'clock tonight. She is a nineteen
year-old American, a University student who is in Marsa
Matruh studying . . . something or other.'

'But there are students here, from a University in

Cairo,' the Manager said. 'They study the mangrove swamps
on Egypt's Mediterranean coast. Sometimes they come to my
camping ground to wash their clothes, or to spend a
weekend in one of my cabins. The students are friendly
and one guy told me he's majoring in Botany. He came all
the way from Chicago to study our swamps.'

The raspy-voiced man's secretary came back into his

office and handed him a thin manilla folder concerning
the Marsa Matruh Camping Ground and it's Owner/Manager,
which he scanned quickly. 'Our records indicate that your
camping ground is in Nasser Street, Marsa Matruh, and
that you live on the premises. Is that correct?'

'Yes.'

'We'll pay you one thousand American Dollars for your

assistance on this one,' the hoarse voice said, 'plus any
additional costs that you incur. In return, you will help
us in any way you can. The cash will be delivered to you
this afternoon in person, so don't leave the camping
ground. And don't organize a woman for Fordyce until I
call you back.' There was a click on the telephone line,
and the hoarse voice was gone.

---oooOooo---

As he hung-up the phone, the Camping Ground Manager was

smiling. In Egypt in 1969, one thousand American Dollars
was an absolute fortune, and it would pay for much-needed
repairs to some of the cabins at the camping ground. The
money would also buy the Manager a lot of 'good times'
with his lady-friends, of whom there were several.

Picking up the two Polaroid photographs from his desk,

the Manager took them to the sink at the back of his
office. Getting down on his knees, he opened a cupboard
below the sink, removed a loose board at the bottom of
the cupboard and hid the photos in the space below. After
replacing the board, he closed the cupboard and stood up.

The harsh-voiced man had said that he ran a secret

Intelligence Unit in Cairo, and the Camping Ground
Manager believed him. All that stuff about the Unit's
budget being hidden away in budgets for Child-Care,
Locust Research and Lunatic Asylums was what convinced
the Manager. It was so ridiculous, he decided, that it
was probably true.

The Manager took a sign that said in Arabic and English:

WILL BE BACK IN 30 MINUTES

and hung it in the glass door of his office. Lighting a

cigar, he stepped out of the office and set out on his
regular morning walk around the camping ground.

---oooOooo---

After ending the phone call with the Manager of the Marsa
Matruh Camping Ground, the man with the rasping voice sat
in his office for a few minutes thinking about what he'd
just been told. Omar Jabril was an Egyptian-Arab man aged
in his thirties, with light-brown skin, short black hair
and a black mustache. He was of medium height but had the
powerful physique of a weight-lifter, with immensely-
broad shoulders. His office was in a heavily-guarded
compound in Cairo and when asked what his occupation was,
he always replied 'Government Administrator'. But in
reality Jabril was a Captain of Egyptian Intelligence.

Jabril's job was a recent creation, part of a shake-up of

Egyptian Intelligence since the country's armed forces __
and those of Syria and Jordan __ were defeated by Israel
in the Six Day War of June 1967. Exactly one year earlier
Jabril had been a Lieutenant in the Egyptian Army during
the Six Day War, had seen some of his men die in the Gaza
Strip, and had almost been killed by the Israeli Army
himself. Having seen how important good Intelligence was,
he'd transfered to Egyptian Intelligence in September
1967. After helping to uncover an Israeli spy-network in
the Egyptian city of Alexandria in February 1968, he'd
been promoted to Captain and given this job. Now, four
months later, this British spy named Fordyce turns up at
a camping ground in Marsa Matruh.

It was obvious to Jabril that the Englishman must be

caught and interrogated, then be disposed-of. But would
his boss, General Salah, see things that way? That was
anybody's guess. The old bastard seemed to spend most of
his time, including during working-hours, at the Naval
and Military Club in central Cairo. Jabril had taken
steps to find out what went on at the Club and discovered
it was frequented by the Secretary of the Egyptian
Cabinet, so General Salah was moving in very high
circles. More worrying, Salah spent a lot of his time at
the Club drinking with an Egyptian millionaire named
Abaawi who had been suspected of being a British spy for
years, but was too 'well-connected' for anyone to
investigate. Omar Jabril really needed to recruit someone
inside the Naval and Military Club, or put an agent in
there. There were some promising young trainee-agents at
the KGB spy-camp run by the Russians just outside Cairo.
Perhaps he should send one of them into the Club posing
as a waiter or waitress. Omar Jabril rubbed his chin and
thought about it, then he turned his mind back to this
British spy named Fordyce.

As the Colonial masters of Egypt from 1882 to 1954, the

British were not popular in Egypt. In the mid-1800s the
British and French had wormed their way in with the weak
Egyptian rulers of the time, and convinced them to run-up
enormous debts building the Suez Canal on Egyptian soil,
a project which mainly benefited Britain and France. The
British then used the vast sums of money that Egypt owed
Western banks as a way to take over Egypt. The Egyptian
people responded with strikes and protests, and in 1882
the British Army invaded Egypt 'temporarily' to 'restore
order'. But British promises to eventually leave were a
lie. As a vital short-cut for shipping between Europe and
Asia, the Suez Canal was too important for the British
Empire to leave in Egyptian control, although the British
had been happy to con Egypt into paying for the Canal.

The British Empire had copied the tactics of the old

Ottoman Empire, which had ruled the Middle East for
centuries. To ensure Egypt's obedience the British had
installed a 'puppet' Egyptian Royal Family, who took
their orders from the British Ambassador. The people of
Egypt were not impressed, and in 1952 a group of Egyptian
Army officers led by Gamal Abdel Nasser launched a coup
which overthrew the 'puppet' King. Nasser soon had the
British Army out of Egypt and when Egypt took back
control of the Suez Canal, Nasser became a national-hero.
Later, Nasser was elected President of Egypt.

Given the history, Omar Jabril thought to himself, you'd

think the British would keep out of Egyptian affairs. But
no. Here we are, in June 1968, with a British secret-
agent named Fordyce sneaking into Egypt from Libya. To do
what? Kill someone? Blow something up?

At 8.14 AM Jabril picked up his phone and made the calls

to alert Egyptian Intelligence about Fordyce's presence
in Marsa Matruh. His boss General Salah couldn't think of
a better idea, so he supported Jabril's plan, and sent
Jabril to implement it. That way if the plan failed,
Salah could blame it all on Captain Jabril. Of such
scheming duplicity are great Government careers made.

At 8.45 AM, Jabril called the Russian spy-camp in the

desert outside Cairo and asked for a certain KGB Colonel.
When the KGB man came on the line Jabril asked to borrow
four of his trainee-spies: the black American girl Olivia
and the three young Arab men: Yusuf, Hussein and Kamil.
All four were in their late teens or early twenties and
they'd finished their training, but as they were the best
recruits they'd been kept on at the spy-camp to learn
extra skills. The Russian KGB Colonel was happy to lend
them to Jabril, for a real mission was the best way to
'blood' new spies. An hour later Jabril meet the KGB man
and the four trainees at an Army base in Cairo. After
Jabril described the situation and what needed to be
done, the KGB Colonel suggested another option, and the
black girl Olivia agreed she could do it.

'Here I go, playing the whore again.' Olivia turned to

Jabril with a smile and smoothed-down her gray jumpsuit,
drawing his attention to her small waist and large firm
breasts. When she caught Jabril eyeing her tits, she
shaped her hand into a pistol and 'shot' him with it.

'Gotcha,' the black girl gave a crazy little laugh.

Playing along with her joke, Jabril placed both of his
hands over his heart and grimaced like he'd really been
shot. The girl laughed again, then she became serious.
Speaking fluent Arabic, she told Jabril how the British
spy Fordyce could be captured and interrogated in a way
that was guaranteed to make him give up his secrets. It
was a new KGB interrogation-method called Enthrallment,
which used sex as a weapon. It only worked on men and,
typically, the interrogator was a woman.

'You've been trained to do this?' Jabril asked her.

'Oh yes. KGB training is very thorough. I know stuff that

would blow your mind, man.' Olivia winked at him and said
in a whisper. 'Let me show you sometime.' Watching the
sway of her hips as she turned and walked away from him,
Jabril's balls grew tense.

After changing into civilian clothes, the four trainees

accompanied Jabril and another Intelligence officer named
Ali into a waiting Egyptian Army helicopter. It took off
and turned north-west for Marsa Matruh, 260 miles (420
kilometers) away, where the British spy Fordyce had
booked into the camping ground. Two hours later the
chopper landed on a soccer field at Marsa Matruh. Two
cars had been left there for them and after finding the
keys of one in the glove-compartment, Jabril threw his
briefcase into the car, climbed in and drove away.

Ali found the keys for the other car and drove the four
trainee-spies to the town's market-Bazaar, where Ali
bought four suitcases of varying sizes and quality. Rooms
had been booked for all of them at two different hotels
in Marsa Matruh, and the suitcases were needed to make
them look like regular hotel-guests. Back at the car,
there was good-natured banter among the male trainees as
Kamil and Hussein compared their cheap suitcases with the
smart leather suitcase that Yusuf had been given. Ali had
a big leather suitcase and Olivia didn't need a suitcase
because, in her long black Muslim robes, she would be
posing as Ali's wife.
During the afternoon Kamil and Hussein used forged ID in
false names to take separate rooms at a flea-pit called
the Marsa Matruh Lodge, where the bored clerk didn't even
ask them to sign-in. At the same time, Yusuf used a fake
Drivers License to check-in to a room at the respectable
Traveler's Inn. Ali and Olivia were already upstairs in
their room at the Traveler's Inn, acting like the married
couple their forged Passports said they were.

---oooOooo---

Earlier, after driving away in the other car, Omar Jabril

had taken his briefcase full of cash to the Marsa Matruh
Camping Ground. He'd introduced himself to the
Owner/Manager of the camping ground, who was delighted to
receive the one thousand American Dollars that Jabril had
promised him over the phone that morning.

Jabril then said he wanted to see the Manager's boat and

if it suited his purpose, Jabril would buy it. If not,
he'd just have to buy someone else's boat. The Manager
objected, saying his boat was not for sale, and Omar
Jabril took an envelope from his pocket and slid out a
document. He unfolded the document and handed it to the
Camping Ground Manager, whose eyes went big and round
when he saw it was a Presidential Decree signed by the
President of Egypt, Gamal Abdel Nasser himself. The
Decree ordered everyone, including Government officials,
police, military and intelligence personnel, private
companies and civilians, to obey Intelligence Captain
Omar Jabril's orders, directions and requests.

'Well, of course you can buy my boat,' the camping ground

manager handed the Presidential Decree back to Jabril.
The pen really is mightier than the sword, Jabril
thought, as he returned the Decree to his pocket.

After hanging the 'BACK IN THIRTY MINUTES' sign in his

office-door, the Camping Ground Manager led Jabril out of
the camping ground and they walked to the nearby Marsa
Matruh Marina, where the Manager's forty-foot cabin-
cruiser Tangier was tied-up to Pier 9. The Tangier was
perfect for what Jabril wanted, and the fact it was so
close to the camping ground was a bonus. The Manager was
sad to part with his cherished boat, which carried so
many happy memories, but Jabril was going to pay him
enough cash in American Dollars to buy two new boats. And
in any case, who could say 'no' to someone who carried a
Decree from the great man, President Nasser? The Manager
decided he'd buy one new boat and use the spare cash to
sail to Greece and Italy in the summer, when the beaches
would be full of bikini-clad women. He smoked a cigar as
he and Jabril walked back to the camping ground.

Jabril paid the Camping Ground Manager a huge amount of

cash in American Dollars for his boat, then he drove to a
cheap hotel on the Coast Road and booked into a room for
the night. He'd bent the rules by saying the Manager's
boat had been 'destroyed by Intelligence Officers in the
course of their duties', for it hadn't happened yet. But
doing it that way let Jabril pay the Manager the maximum
amount of money for his boat. Captain Omar Jabril of
Egyptian Intelligence went to bed early and as he slept,
he dreamed of the beautiful black American girl Olivia.
His plan to catch, interrogate and kill the British spy
Fordyce was now in the hands of Olivia and the others and
Jabril was sure his plan would work, because of Olivia.
Fordyce wouldn't be able to resist her. Jabril doubted if
any man could resist her.

---oooOooo---

After hiring the old Austin Seven car in Benghazi, Libya,

Robert Waylon Fordyce had driven into the desert, jacked-
up the car and spent an hour lying on his back underneath
the car, tying something to the chassis. He then drove
sixteen hours to reach Marsa Matruh in Egypt. Checking-in
to his cabin at Marsa Matruh Camping Ground at 7.45 AM,
he'd slept for eight hours. Waking at 4.00 PM, he
showered and ate some of the sandwiches he carried with
him, then spent two hours planning how to shoot the
politician in Cairo and get out of Egypt. Fordyce had
been doing missions like this for twenty years, so it was
no big deal. In 1948, aged twenty-one, he'd joined the
British Secret Service and here he was, twenty years
later, still killing people and blowing things up. His
career as a spy, saboteur and assassin had been
successful but the secrecy of the job and his absences
from home had wrecked his marriage. He was now divorced.

Fordyce was forty-one years old, a white Englishman of

average height, with blue eyes and short brown hair. In
his jeans and teeshirt he looked extremely muscular, fit
and tough. Fordyce had a cynical outlook, for he believed
that people are primarily motivated by fear. A man who
fears poverty may do an armed-robbery. A woman who fears
her husband is betraying her might cut off his balls when
he's asleep. Many actions were a response to some kind of
fear, and fear makes for the worst kind of decision-
making. Viewed like this, it was no wonder the world was
in a mess. It always had been and always would be __
Fordyce was convinced of that.

And it wasn't just individuals who acted out of fear.

Governments did too. Stalin, the Communist Dictator of
Soviet Russia, had feared his own citizens, so his Secret
Police had killed between 20 and 30 million Russians in
the slave-labor camps of Siberia and the Arctic. Hitler,
the Dictator of Nazi Germany, had feared Jews and
intellectuals, so his SS and Gestapo murdered 12 million
Citizens, including 6 million Jews, in Death Camps like
Dachau and Auschwitz. Religious-extremists fear life and
they kill because it's the only thing they have left.
Communism, Nazism and religious-extremism are meant to be
different from each other but if you take any idea to an
extreme, no matter how well-intentioned you are, you end
up being just another monster.

It never occurred to Fordyce that by being a professional

killer, he had also become a monster. He'd completed his
planning by 6.10 PM and as he made a cup of tea in the
cabin's kitchen, he started thinking about women. This
mission had been going for eight weeks and the last time
he had sex was four weeks ago. He'd spent the first part
of the mission at Secret Service headquarters in London,
reading files and reports. An executive from Hi-Lift
Elevators and his secretary had been brought in to teach
Fordyce how to 'hot-wire' an elevator, so he could carry
out his mission in Egypt. Fordyce had asked the secretary
out to dinner, plied her with Champagne, then taken her
to a hotel and spent the night fucking her.

Those pleasant memories reminded him that when he booked-

in to this camping ground at 7.45 that morning, he'd
asked the Manager about getting a whore. It was now past
6.00 PM and he still hadn't heard back from the man. When
he'd drunk his tea, Fordyce left the cabin and went to
the Manager's office to make inquiries. The Manager saw
him coming and ushered the Englishman into his office.

'Have you found a whore for me?' Fordyce asked as he sat

down.

The Camping Ground Manager sat behind his desk. 'I've

found a black girl who will do it, but not here at the
camping ground.'

'What do you mean, not here?' Fordyce asked angrily.

'Marsa Matruh is a small town in Muslim Egypt,' the

Manager said. 'The black girl is an American who is
studying here. If she's caught working as a prostitute,
she'd be thrown out of Egypt, so she has to be careful.'

'Okay,' Fordyce nodded. 'So what's the plan?'

'The girl has the use of a luxurious cabin-cruiser named

Tangier, which is tied-up to Pier 9 at Marsa Matruh
Marina,' the Camping Ground Manager explained. 'It's a
ten minute walk from here and the girl can meet you there
at eight o'clock tonight. You can spend the night with
her on the boat in comfort, privacy and complete safety.'

Fordyce frowned. 'There must be other whores who don't

mind coming to the camping ground.'

'Normally you'd be right,' the Camping Ground Manager

admitted, 'but this weekend there are horse-races in
Alexandria and the local prostitutes have gone there to
make money off the punters. This black girl hasn't gone
to Alexandria because she isn't really a prostitute. She
only does this now and then, when she needs the money.'

'I just don't like the idea of doing it on a boat,' the

Englishman grumbled.

'Mister Fordyce,' the Manager said, 'the girl can't come

to the camping ground and no-one else is available.' As
he finished speaking, he raised his hands in a gesture of
helplessness. It was an act worthy of an Academy Award,
because the Manager knew of several prostitutes in Marsa
Matruh who were available.

Fordyce didn't know Marsa Matruh town, so he couldn't

argue. When he joined the British Secret Service they'd
sent him on a six-month training course with British Army
Special Forces, and he'd learned never to meet a stranger
on a ship, yacht or boat. Even if the 'meet' was with a
woman, it was too easy to be ambushed or drugged, then
taken out to sea and tortured. Afterwards they could
throw you to the sharks and nobody would know what had
happened. As part of the training Fordyce had learned
Karate and the outer-edge, or 'blade', of each of his
hands was heavily-callused from the ongoing Karate
training, which involved chopping bricks in half with his
bare hands. Over the years he'd killed three men with his
Karate and many others with guns, knives, and 'accidents'
that he'd arranged.

I can take care of myself, Fordyce thought to himself.

Aloud he asked: 'How old is this black girl?'
'Nineteen,' the Camping Ground Manager smirked. He handed
Fordyce a color photo of a beautiful black girl with an
Afro hair-do. She stood on a beach wearing a little
yellow bikini and the Englishman saw she was tall, long-
legged and slim, with large breasts.

'How much is she going to cost me?' Fordyce asked, as he

reached for his wallet. When told how much she charged,
the Englishman was astonished. Then he thought about her
tits, and paid up. The Manager locked the money away in
his office safe then came back to his desk and sat down.

'As Egypt is a Muslim nation,' the Manager said, 'she'll

come to the boat wearing long black Muslim robes.'

'She certainly isn't cheap,' Fordyce observed.

'Her name is Olivia,' the Manager said, 'and I can assure

you, no-one has ever come back looking for a refund.'

---oooOooo---

Leaving the Camping Ground Manager to set things up with

the black girl Olivia, Fordyce went to his cabin, where
he shaved and had a shower. After putting on a clean
shirt and linen trousers, he sat at the table studying a
Marsa Matruh town-map.

At 7.45 PM, exactly twelve hours since he'd arrived in

Marsa Matruh, he stepped out of his cabin into the warm
night, left the camping ground and walked along the Coast
Road to the Marsa Matruh Marina. Reaching it in five
minutes, the white Englishman found Pier 9 easily enough,
for the piers were all numbered and brightly illuminated
by fluorescent lights. Walking out along Pier 9, he could
see the forty-foot cabin-cruiser Tangier moored at the
far end of the pier, and he was struck by how large,
modern and luxurious the boat appeared to be.

The Marina was completely deserted, which the Englishman

thought odd on such a warm and pleasant night as this. It
occurred to him that since leaving the camping ground, he
hadn't seen anyone else around. His doubts about meeting
a stranger on a boat returned and he considered going
back to the camping ground. But he hadn't had sex for
weeks and his balls were aching for it. Recalling the
photo of the gorgeous black girl in her yellow bikini, he
walked to the end of Pier 9. He watched the other boats
that were moored nearby, but saw nothing suspicious or
unusual. As he approached the Tangier he listened for any
sound indicating that someone was hiding on board,
waiting to attack him, but he heard nothing except for
the gentle lapping of the waves against the boat's hull.

Going aboard, he saw a note in English stuck to the

cabin-doorway __ printed in a girl's neat writing __
advising him that she would be back soon. Signed 'O',
which obviously stood for Olivia, the brief note
fascinated him. Using spy-code: Δ¿ ω¥▼ Ψψ фΣΔΏ ¿/
Fordyce was jotting in a notebook, when he saw a
beautiful black girl on the well-lit pier and he
recognized Olivia from the photo he'd been shown.

Tall hot and nineteen, she wore long black robes with no
head-covering and she had an Afro hair-style. When she
reached the boat Fordyce offered her his hand, and as
Olivia grasped it then stepped on board, the strength of
her grip and toughness of her hand shocked him. The outer
edge, or 'blade', of her brown hand was covered with
calluses, like a Karate-expert would get chopping-up
planks with her bare hands. In high-heels Olivia was
taller than he was and she would be lethal if she did
Karate. But once on the boat she switched all the lights
on, giggled at the white man and lifted her robes to show
him her sensational long brown legs. As Fordyce stared at
her legs his fears she did Karate were forgotten, and the
black girl turned and led him into the cabin of the boat.

Inside the cabin Olivia slipped off her long black robes
and stood there, naked in her high-heels, as the stunned
British spy gaped at her figure. Her tall shapely brown
body was slim in the legs, waist and neck, but she had
had more tits and ass than anything the white man had
seen outside of a Playboy magazine. As the hot naked
black girl came smiling towards him Fordyce grew an
erection and the girl's hard brown hand squeezed it
through his linen trousers. The Englishman tried to
scream out loud, but her other hand moved very fast,
jabbing into his Adam's Apple to block the scream and
choke-off his air supply. As her Karate-trained brown
hands started manipulating his Adam's Apple and stiff
penis at the same time Fordyce didn't know whether to
fight Olivia because she was choking him, or fuck her
because she was playing with his erection. He'd soon
become transfixed and as he stood rooted to the spot
inside the boat's cabin, his eyes rolled up in their
sockets until only the whites showed. Fordyce made a
croaking noise and in that moment, any doubts he had
about coming on the boat, any fear of this hot naked
black girl doing Karate and all his Secret Service spy
skills and twenty years of experience were swept away.
Chapter 2

THE NEXT DAY

Saturday, June 8, 1968

Mediterranean Sea, fifty miles off the Egyptian coast.

The interrogation of the British spy and assassin Fordyce

would last all weekend. It was done by the black American
girl Olivia in the cabin of the 40-foot cabin-cruiser
Tangier, which had been sailed far out to sea by Ali,
Yusuf, Kamil and Hussein. The guys were lazing on the
boat's upper-deck enjoying the warm Summer sunshine, and
they all wore headphones playing loud music. This was to
ensure they didn't have to listen to the noises that
Fordyce was making down in the cabin.

Olivia was interrogating Fordyce by herself, and he'd

proven to be a tough bastard. During her training at the
Russian KGB spy-camp outside Cairo she'd interrogated
eight men using the KGB's Enthrallment method, and the
longest any of them had held-out was six hours. Fordyce
was still refusing to talk after fourteen hours of it, so
she realized she would have to start playing dirty. The
guys Ali, Yusuf, Kamil and Hussein were here to sail the
boat and provide 'backup' for the black girl, but she
didn't need any backup. Last night the Englishman had
tried to overpower her in the early stages of his
interrogation, but Olivia had a Black Belt in Karate.
She'd Karate-kicked him under the inverted 'U' of his
ribcage, driving all the air from his lungs, and Fordyce
had collapsed onto the cabin floor. The black girl was in
bare feet when she kicked him: if she'd been wearing her
high-heeled shoes, the stiletto-heel would have
penetrated his heart and killed him.

After his attempt to overpower her, Olivia had applied

Karate stress-holds to Fordyce's knees, elbows and
shoulders which produced the most awful pain imaginable,
yet left no marks on his body. After an hour of these
stress-holds he'd lost the ability to move his arms and
legs and he would remain like that for several days, if
he lived that long.

Without the use of his arms and legs Fordyce could

neither escape nor threaten her, and he'd lain helpless
on the floor of the boat's cabin, writhing and screaming
as Olivia went to work on him. She was wearing her long
black robes and her Karate-trained hands had a million
ways to inflict pain on the Englishman's naked body. The
KGB's Enthrallment interrogation-method that she was
using was based on 'over-stimulating' the subject through
pain, pleasure, light, dark, heat, cold, pictures, sounds
and smells. Enthrallment was very effective at breaking-
down men and getting them to reveal their secrets, but it
didn't work on women. This had been confirmed by the
human experiments which the KGB's 'Mad Doctors' had
performed on prisoners at Russia's slave-labor camps.

At this time Russia had a Communist Government and the

KGB was their secret-police and spy-agency. The KGB
operated hundreds of slave-labor camps in Siberia and the
Arctic which, in the 1960s, had a total of five million
prisoners in them. Some of these prisoners were anti-
Communists and some were innocent people who'd been
denounced as a 'traitor to Communism' by a neighbor who
wanted their apartment. Others were denounced by a work-
colleague who wanted their job, or by a 'friend' who
wanted their wife. The KGB had employed Mad Doctors to
experiment on thousands of slave-labor camp prisoners, in
order to perfect the Enthrallment interrogation method.
Most of these prisoners had ended-up dead.

After being wired-up to machines which recorded their

blood-pressure, pulse, heart-beat, brain-activity,
breathing, body-temperature and perspiration, the
prisoner might be chopped-up with an axe, crushed in a
metal press, or lowered into a vat of acid. Some men were
wired-up to the monitors then seduced by a prostitute, so
the Mad Doctors could see what happened to the man's
vital-signs when he was having sex. Tests were done to
measure the effects on humans of certain smells, sounds
and images, including pornographic images, violent images
and totally-depraved images. Other tests tried to
determine what effects pleasure, pain, light, dark, cold
and heat had on the human body. Some experimental-
subjects were wired-up to the monitoring-machines then
immersed in freezing-water until they froze solid, while
others were locked in a Sauna until they died of heat-
stress. The data from all of this was used by the Mad
Doctors to figure-out which types of 'stimulation' would
work best in their Enthrallment interrogation-method.

Once the Enthrallment interrogation-method had been

perfected, KGB Instructors had been trained how to do it.
The black American girl Olivia had learned about
Enthrallment during her time at the KGB spy-training camp
in the desert outside Cairo. Her instructor had been the
same dainty Indian lady who'd taught her Yoga and Tantric
sexual-techniques.
'Because men have a penis,' the Indian lady had said,
'their bodies and brains are designed to accept a lot of
stimulation, and this makes them vulnerable to over-
stimulation. The Enthrallment interrogation-method uses
over-stimulation to overload a man's brain and send him
into a Deep Trance where he loses the ability to lie,
exaggerate or conceal information. In many cases he will
become eager to help his interrogator and will volunteer
information on things he hasn't been asked about, but
which he thinks his interrogator would want to know.'

'My God,' Olivia had stared at the Indian lady. 'Can

Enthrallment be used on women?'

'No, only men,' the Indian lady had smiled. 'Male brains
are different to female brains. Enthrallment works very
well on men, but not on women.'

The cabin-door of the boat Tangier was locked-shut from

the inside, and the curtains were drawn so the guys on
the upper-deck couldn't see into the cabin. After taping-
open Fordyce's eyelids, Olivia had forced him to look at
some very disturbing photos of men, women and children
being tortured, experimented-on and dissected by Mad
Doctors at a slave-labor camp in Communist Russia. The
photos were real and so were the terrible shrieks and
screams of the victims, which Fordyce was made to listen-
to through headphones. As Fordyce viewed the horrendous
images and listened to the screams of the victims, it
seemed he could actually smell the blood, guts, shit and
death. In fact, Olivia had sprayed a foul-smelling liquid
into the air, but Fordyce didn't know that. After three
hours of this the British spy had gone insane and he'd
begun foaming at the mouth, thrashing-around and saying
all kinds of weird and crazy things.

'Witch! Witch! You're a fucking Witch!' Fordyce had

shouted at Olivia. 'But the sky is very big! And from
God's beard, Lightning will descend and burn you to Ash!
And the Four Winds will blow and scatter your Ashes, so
that no trace of your Perfidy will remain known unto the
Minds of Men!'

The subject's insanity meant that Phase One of the

Enthrallment process had been successfully completed and
Olivia took away the headphones and the disturbing
photos, and sprayed a sweet-smelling air-freshener inside
the boat's cabin. Kneeling beside where Fordyce lay naked
and helpless on the floor, she had applied ice-blocks to
various parts of his body until he started screaming
again, then she applied a cream to his balls that made
them grow so hot, it felt like they were on fire. His
shrieks became incredibly-loud, he convulsed violently
and his skin turned red and hot all over his body, as he
was tormemted by the incredible heat in his balls. The
naked black girl let him suffer for five minutes but to
Fordyce it seemed like five hours. Then, when she began
to bathe his balls with a wet cloth, the relief was
instant and so wonderful, that the British spy had smiled
up at her and groaned with pleasure.

Olivia began asking him questions about his career in the

British Secret Service and when he didn't answer straight
away, she stopped bathing his balls with the wet cloth.
The terrible heat returned and the Englishman tried to
make up false details about his career as a spy.

Olivia had read the Egyptian Intelligence file on Fordyce

so she knew a lot about him. She knew where he'd been for
much of the last fifteen years, when he'd been there,
what he'd sabotaged or blown-up, and who he'd killed. So
now, when he tried to tell her that he'd been in Paris in
August 1953, she knew he was lying. Egyptian Intelligence
had identified Fordyce as one of the British spies who'd
been in Iran in August 1953. They even had photographs of
him in Tehran, dining with supporters of the Shah, the
Iranian Monarch. A few days after the photos were taken
the Mossadegh Government had been toppled and the pro-
Western Shah had returned to power as a dictator.

'I will always know when you're lying,' Olivia told

Fordyce. Her right hand gripped his Adam's Apple and
twisted it. No longer able to breathe, the Englishman's
face turned red, then purple. Olivia released his Adam's
Apple and let him breathe again.

'Oh God!' Fordyce cried. 'My balls are on fire! Help me!'

Olivia gazed down at him impassively. 'Swear that you

will never lie to me again.'

'I swear! I swear!' he yelled.

'You swear what?'

'I swear that I will never lie to you again.'

Olivia's brown hands began to bathe his balls with a wet

cloth again, and when the British spy looked up at her
now, there was madness in his eyes, but also something
else.
'Do you still think I'm a Witch?' she asked, as she
continued to bathe his balls, preventing the special
cream from heating them up.

'No,' Fordyce told her. 'I think you're a Goddess.'

The black girl looked into his crazed eyes and knew he
was telling the truth.

'I'll tell you everything I know,' Fordyce said. As she

continued bathing his balls with cool water his entire
body cooled and his skin lost it's red color. Then he
slipped into a Deep Trance and beagn relling Olivia all
of his secrets. As he'd been a British Secret Service
spy, saboteur and assassin for twenty years, he had a lot
to tell her and his words were all caught on the tape-
recorder that she had running.

Fordyce told Olivia he'd been sent here to assassinate

the President of Egypt, and this information had saved
Fordyce's life. The British spy carried inside his head
numerous facts which indicated that Britain was trying to
destabilize Egypt and kill their leader. So instead of
Egyptian Intelligence killing Fordyce, they now had to
protect him. Fordyce was their 'proof' of what the
British were up to.

Leaving Fordyce in the cabin, Olivia went up to the

boat's cockpit and used the radio to send an emergency
signal to Omar Jabril. 'Kappa Omega,' she said into the
microphone. 'Kappa Omega.'

'Received and understood,' a man's voice replied

immediately. 'State the situation.'

'A matter of State has arisen,' Olivia said, 'require

Pharaoh on scene, urgently.' Pharaoh was the code-name
for Omar Jabril.
STENT - O books in to Camp Grnd as Am tourist awaiting
husband
- Jabril and team recover F's hire-car & belongings

STENT - Camp Grnd Mgr and hIs lady-friend

STENT - O posing as waitress at Nav & Mil Club

STENT - O and Jabril

Chapter 3

Friday, April 25, 1969.

Cairo, Egypt.

A brief report appeared on Page 24 of the Cairo Gazette

newspaper that day.

BRITISH TOURIST DIES IN BOAT CRASH

Fishermen last week found a man's body in the burnt-out
wreckage of a cabin-cruiser which had crashed on Zuweid
Reef in the Mediterranean Sea, seven miles off the coast
of Marsa Matruh. The body could not be identified at
first, but dental records flown out from England have now
confirmed the remains are those of Robert Waylon Fordyce,
a 41 year-old tourist from London, who went missing from
Marsa Matruh last week. The cabin-cruiser Tangier was
stolen from Marsa Matruh Marina at that time and as Mr
Fordyce was alone in the boat when it hit the reef and
exploded, Police are treating the matter as a boat-theft
and death by misadventure.

The black American girl Olivia read the newspaper report

a second time as she sipped her coffee. The time was 8.35
AM and normally at this time on a Friday morning she
would be on her way to the University. But yesterday
she'd learned that Captain Omar Jabril of Egyptian
Intelligence wanted to meet her this morning, in secret.
So instead of going to the University, she was taking the
day off and meeting Jabril.

Right now, she was sitting at the table on the balcony of

her fifth-floor hotel room, reading the Cairo Gazette and
fighting the excitement she felt. She had her sights set
on the handsome Captain Jabril, and the idea that she was
going to meet him later this morning caused a flutter in
her belly. She knew Jabril was pleased with the job she'd
performed the previous weekend, interrogating the British
spy Robert Waylon Fordyce, then killing him in what
appeared to be a boat-crash. If Jabril offered her a job
in Egyptian Intelligence, she would be so happy, she'd
fuck him.

That thought made the nineteen year-old black girl feel

hot. Setting down the Cairo Gazette newspaper, she left
the balcony and went into her hotel room to have a
shower. Leaving the shower twenty minutes later, she
toweled herself dry and got dressed, not in the
traditional black robes of a Muslim woman, but in a
Western-style dress that was navy-blue and came down to
her knees. Egypt was a moderate Muslim country and women
could wear what they wanted, within reason.

It was 9.30 AM when Olivia left her hotel and walked down
Tahrir Street. A few minutes later she was crossing
Tahrir Square, heading for a high-rise office tower which
also housed a Shopping Mall and Cinema on the Fourth
Floor. She was to meet Captain Omar Jabril of Egyptian
Intelligence in the Cinema at this morning's screening of
the movie 'Barbarella', which starred the young American
actress Jane Fonda. Because Olivia and Jabril were spies
it was safer for them to meet was in a 'public place',
such as a cinema.

Libraries, museums, art-galleries, beaches and parks were

also acceptable 'meeting-places', as were monuments,
tourist-precincts, shopping-malls, market-places, stores,
hotel-lobbies, zoos and safari-parks. Public-transport
was okay as long as it was busy, or one of them could be
picked-up by the other one in his or ber car.

As Olivia stepped out of the elevator on the Fourth Floor

and walked across to the Cinema she saw that very few
people were around. On weekends this Cinema was always
packed with movie-goers but today was Friday, a working-
day, and it was extremely quiet. The good news was that
Olivia didn't have to queue for a ticket.

The Arab man who worked at the ticket-counter noticed the

black girl straight away. She wore the long black robes
of a Muslim woman but her head was uncovered, and her
black hair was worn in an Afro hairstyle. Although the
long black Muslim robes covered the black girl from
throat to toe they couldn't hide the fact that she was
tall, beautiful and moved with the sleek lithe agility of
a cat. She was aged eighteen or nineteen, no more.

'Which movie would you like to see?' the Arab ticket-

seller asked politely.

'Barbarella.' Olivia handed him the money.

The Arab man nodded and gave the black girl her ticket.
She had forty minutes before the 'Barbarella' movie
started, so she left the Cinema and headed into the lobby
of the Shopping Mall. Below her Muslim robes the black
girl's hips swayed rhythmically from side to side as she
walked, as though her ass was waving to the world. The
Arab man at the Cinema's ticket-counter watched her
swaying ass all the way across the lobby, until the black
girl turned into a side-corridor and was lost to his
view.

Moving in that sleek, cat-like way of hers, Olivia

followed the signs to the Ladies bathroom and when she
entered it, she noted the distance from the door to the
first cubicle was about one meter (3 feet). If she had a
stick or a metal tube of the right length, she could
wedge the toilet-door shut from the inside, thereby
preventing anyone else getting in. She would need to hang
an 'OUT OF ORDER' sign on the outside of door, in order
to allay the suspicions of anyone trying to get in.

She left the Ladies and strolled around the Shopping Mall
buying a walking-stick, a hacksaw-blade, a roll of
sticky-tape, several sheets of plain white paper, a black
Texta marking-pen with a thick nib, and a large shoulder-
bag to hold all of these things. Olivia then

Walking inside the Cinema, Olivia moved to the rear left-

hand corner as she'd been instructed to do, and she found
Captain Jabril sitting in the very back row. She sat in
the same row a few seats away from him. As this was a
Friday, and therefore a work-day, the only other people
in the Cinema were two old-age Pensioners, but they were
seated near the front of the Cinema, well away from
Olivia and Captain Jabril. Olivia and Jabril didn't say
anything to each other until the movie started.

As soon as the movie 'Barbarella' came up on the Cinema

screen, Olivia moved to sit beside Captain Jabril.

'Spies like us can't risk meeting in the open,' Jabril

told her, 'so we meet in a public place like a Cinema.'
'Or at a Zoo, Library, beach, or park,' Olivia said.

'Correct,' Jabril turned to her and smiled. 'You did a

great job interrogating Fordyce. We've copied the tape-
recordings you made and we have teams of agents working
on them.'

Saying nothing, the black girl remained silent.

'I've been authorized to offer you a job with Egyptian

Intelligence,' Jabril told her, 'it's a junior position
but . . .'

'Yes! Yes! Yes!' Olivia interrupted him and when Jabril

looked at her, the nineteen year-old black girl seemed to
be hysterical. Grinning like a mad-woman, she thrust both
of her arms high up into the air and began crying out:
'Oh! Oh! Oh! I'm so excited! I'm so excited!'

Getting up from her seat, Olivia came to stand beside

where Captain Jabril was sitting, and he saw she was
crying tears of joy.

'I'm so excited! I'm so excited!' the black girl sat down

on Jabril's knee, wrapped her arms round his neck and
kissed him all over his face. Then she kissed him on the
lips and as her nimble tongue flickered around inside his
mouth, Jabril's rigid tongue thrust into the sweet warm
softness of her mouth. Jabril's head was spinning and he
was aware of Olivia moving onto his lap. Her ripe rounded
ass was wiggling around on his lap like crazy, then his
penis went hard and as she slipped her hand into his
trousers to hold him, he groaned out loud.

The movie 'Barbarella' became quite noisy at this point

and that was fortunate, because Jabril was now groaning a
lot. Olivia opened his trousers and as she used her hands
on his balls and penis, Jabril writhed around helplessly.
He was about to climax when she reached to a spot in
between his anus and his urethra. She touched him there
in a special way and his near-climax just disappeared.
His penis was still hard and he remained sexually-aroused
but the orgasm he had been about to have, was gone.

The Egyptian Intelligence Captain stared at the black

girl in disbelief. 'I was about to come and you stopped
it. Did you learn that from the Russians?'

Olivia grinned. 'No, I learned that in Harlem. My Dad had

a well-paid job with the State Department and my parents
sent me to the best schools, but the strict discipline
got me down. When I was fourteen I ran away to New York
City, and lived as a street-whore in Harlem for three
months. There was an old black lady who was a healer,
herbalist, whore and witch. I stayed with her for a while
and she taught me how to 'switch-off' a guy's orgasm. She
also taught me some other stuff.'

'Like what?' Captain Jabril was genuinely interested.

'I know how to blow your nose, your mind and your cock,
all at the same time,' the black girl told him. 'If
you're nice to me, I might show you sometime.'

'If we book a hotel room,' Jabril said, 'you could show

me today.'

'No.' Olivia shook her head. 'It doesn't work like that.
You'll enjoy it more if I do it when you're not expecting
it. Booking into a hotel is a good idea, but don't expect
to get any sleep.'

As she was talking, Olivia took off her Muslim robes.

Under them she wore a white bra, panties and high-heels.
Her tall brown body was stunning, with long legs,
curvaceous hips, a narrow waist and a flat brown stomach.
Her brown breasts looked very bigm and when she took off
the bra her breasts swelled-out immensely.

Olivia knelt down between Jabril's legs with her breasts

resting on his lap, either side of his erection. Then she
used her hands to push her breasts together, trapping his
stiff penis in between them. Jabril looked thunderstruck
as he saw his big erection held fast between the girl's
immense brown breasts, then she began using her hands to
push her tits around, pressing them tightly together
around his penis, moving them in various ways, and she
could tell by Jabril's breathing that his orgasm was
drawing near. The Egyptian Intelligence man sat in the
back row of the almost-empty Cinema, watching the hot
black girl use her tits to massage his stiff penis. He
was nearing his climax and wondering if Olivia would
'switch it off' like she had earlier.

On the Cinema screen Barbarella (played by Jane Fonda)

looked groovy and gorgeous as she zooms around in her
spaceship, befriending good Aliens, eluding monsters, and
keeping one step ahead of the evil Aliens who wanted to
take over the Galaxy.
In the back row of the near-empty Cinema, Olivia suddenly
stood up between Jabril's legs, helped him to take off
his shirt, then pulled his trousers and underwear down to
his ankles. After taking off her panties and high-heels
the naked black girl sat down on Jabril's knees facing
him, grabbed his ears and pulled his excited face down to
bury him between her huge brown breasts. Sliding forward
to sit astride his lap, she'd lifted one of her long
lissom brown legs and as she put her leg up over Jabril's
shoulder his rigid penis slipped up into her vagina like
a steel piston sliding home in a well-oiled machine.
Growling with satisafaction, Captain Jabril took Olivia's
narrow waist between his hands, lifting her up slightly
as he began to thrust inside her like a crazy-man.

Towards the front of Cinema 3, two old-age Pensioners

watched the 'Barbarella' movie, unaware of what was going
on in the back row of seats. The black girl Olivia used
her hands to push her breasts around, giving an erotic
massage to Intelligence Captain Jabril, whose rigid penis
was in between her breasts. Jabril managed to keep quite
most of the time but when he finally came, he screamed
with the joy of it.

Fortunately the 'Barbarella' movie was quite noisy at

that juncture, with the Barbarella character (played by
Jane Fonda) running away from some aliens, and trying to
escape in her spaceship. The Pensioners heard Jabril cry
out, but they thought the sound came from the movie.

At 8.00 AM that Friday morning she was sitting in her

apartment reading the Cairo Gazette. She recalled the
noises that the British assassin Fordyce had made as she
subjected him to the Russian KGB 'Enthrallment' method of
interrogation, which caused torment without leaving any
marks on the victim's body. By the next morning Fordyce
had 'broken', gone into a deep Trance and told her
everything he knew, which was quite a lot, as he'd been a
British spy and assassin for twenty years. He'd talked
and the tape-recorder caught it all, then Olivia had used
a Karate pressure-hold on his temples to kill him. After
staging the boat-crash and explosion to explain his
death, Olivia and the three guys had sped back to shore
in the inflatable-dinghy with the outboard-motor.

Captain Jabril of Egyptian Intelligence had been pleased

with the secrets extracted from Fordyce, so he'd employed
the four trainee-spies in his Intelligence Unit. The guys
Yusuf, Hussein and Kamil had stayed at Marsa Matruh to
check-out the hired Austin Seven that Fordyce had been
driving. They found the sniper's rifle where Fordyce said
he'd hidden it, in the flange of the car's chassis.

Thankfully Fordyce hadn't had a chance to use the rifle,

for he'd told Olivia that he'd been intending to shoot
the President of Egypt, Gamal Abdel Nasser.

Nasser was not only Egypt's President but a National Hero

for throwing the British Army out of Egypt, and asserting
Egyptian sovereignty over the Suez Canal. Known to be
incorruptible, he was a moderate Muslim who kept religion
separate from politics. Nasser had been scheduled to
attend a meeting in Cairo and Fordyce had planned to
'hotwire' the elevator on a nearby office tower that was
under construction. Hiding up among the office tower's
scaffolding, the British assassin would have had a clear
shot at President Nasser when the meeting ended and
Nasser came out to his chauffeur-driven car.

Olivia's train of thought was interrupted by a knock at

her door and when she opened it, she found her boss Omar
Jabril standing there. He came in and they sat in her
kitchen drinking coffee for fifteen minutes, as they
talked about the latest British attempt to kill Nasser.

'It might have worked,' Jabril said. He had come here to

brief Olivia about her next mission, or at least that was
the excuse he used. He'd been to her apartment on various
pretexts recently, and Olivia made a decision. Getting up
from her chair she came to stand beside where Jabril sat,
reached up under her red dress and drew down her panties.
They were red too, the staring Egyptian man noted, as he
watched them slide down her long brown legs to her high-
heels. Stepping out of the panties, she pulled her arms
up into her dress and, after some wriggling around, her
arms came back into view with one hand holding her bra.
She handed it to Jabril and he read the label which said:
38 INCHES F-CUP. His mind churned as he tried to imagine
what her huge brown breasts would be like and he grew a
hard-on. As Olivia kissed him, she slipped one of her
brown hands down inside the top of his trousers.

---oooOooo---

Two hours and four orgasms later Omar Jabril was stunned
and bewitched. He'd never come so often in one session,
but Olivia had a box full of tricks thanks to her KGB
training, which enabled her to keep him hard and banging.
His first bang had really been two orgasms that happened
one after another and it was so spectacular, colors had
exploded in his brain. The orgasms since then had been
'out of this world' and a light seemed to have been
turned-on in his head. It felt like his erection would be
with him until the day he died. Which might be today, if
he kept on screwing Olivia. Death didn't worry him, which
was weird, but there it was. Jabril and the black girl
both lay naked on her double-bed.

'Where did you learn the sex-stuff?' he asked. 'From the

Russians?' As a Captain in Egyptian Intelligence, Jabril
knew about some of the things the Russian KGB taught
their recruits at their spy-training camp outside Cairo,
but there were a lot of gaps in his knowledge.

'Living with my conservative Catholic parents became

impossible when I was fourteen,' Olivia said. 'so I ran
away from home and lived as a street-whore in Harlem for
a while. While I was there I befriended this Healer-
Herbalist-Whore-Witch woman. She taught me a lot of
stuff. Then I was a Groupie with a Rock Band and I spent
two years touring with them, drugging and fucking every
day, with all kinds of weird and wonderful people. Later
I joined a militant Black Power group then got recruited
by the KGB, who taught me all about sex, killing and
spying.'

Jabril eyed her. 'You're the best fuck I've ever had.'

'That's what the High School Head used to say.' Olivia

giggled. 'You've killed a lot of men, haven't you Omar?'

'How do you know that?' he demanded. His Intelligence

work was Classified and so was his earlier Army career.
'When a man comes,' she said, 'I know what I'm getting.'

'I need a better explanantion than that,' he told her.

The black girl giggled again. 'Or what? You'll kill me?
You'd better use your gun __ I think your pecker is out
of bullets.' She eyed his limp penis.

'Oh, really?' Angry now, he got off the bed, went to the
drinks cabinet and poured brandy into a glass. He dunked
his penis into it and grimaced, then his penis went hard.

The naked black girl eyed his cock, smiled and opened her
legs. As Jabril lay on top of her and entered her vagina,
she sighed and began stroking up along his spine with one
hand, while her other hand touched his butt and balls.
Soon he was pumping rhythmically away at her but his face
was drawn, his eyes dull, and it took him a long time to
climax. When he finally came for a fifth time his body
convulsed and shrieked, then he rolled off the black girl
and passed-out. Omar Jabril looked totally 'wasted', but
Olivia felt full of vitality, life and energy. She got
dressed and went out, leaving a note for Jabril on the
bedside-table.

---oooOooo---

Jabril had been asleep for two hours when the phone on
the bedside-table woke him up. An alarm-clcok next to the
phone showed 12.40 PM. 'Yes?' Jabril said into the phone.

It was Jabril's secretary. 'I have Customs at Cairo

Airport on the line, Omar,' she said. There was a click,
then a man's voice. 'Mr Jabril? I'm with Customs at Cairo
International Airport. An Englishman named Rawson has
just landed here and as his name is on the list you sent
us, we've delayed him by doing a baggage search.'

Shit, Jabril was suddenly wide-awake, another British

assassin. Rawson was one of dozens of names that Fordyce
had given up under interrogation. Jabril had circulated
the names to all entry-points into Egypt, such as border-
posts, shipping-ports, and airports.

'Are you sure it's the right man?' Jabril asked.

'Yes. These are his Passport details: 'Full name: Charles

Rawson. British Citizen. 30 years old. Born August 30,
1938, in Chelsea, England. Sex: Male. Race: White. Build:
Solid. Height: 6 feet (183 centimeters). Weight: 192
pounds (87 kilos). Eyes: Brown. Hair: Blonde. Occupation:
Geologist. Home address: Unit 4, 59 Bourdon Street,
Mayfair, London. British Passport number: 7193-311-629-L.
Issued: London, January 13, 1967. Expires: January 12,
1970. The Visa Stamps in his Passport show he travels
regularly, all over the world. He told me he's in Egypt
to examine rock-formations in the Qattara Depression.'

'Just a moment.' Jabril set the telephone down without

hanging-up, picked up his small two-way radio and called
one of his people who worked at Cairo Airport. They all
carried two-way radios and Jabril gave the man his
orders, signed off, then picked up the phone.

'My people will be in place in ten minutes,' Jabril told

the Customs man on the other end of the line. 'So to be
on the safe side, keep Rawson waiting for another twenty
minutes, then apologize to him and let him go.'

'Understood,' the Customs Officer said. The call ended

and it was forty minutes later when Jabril's radio
buzzed. It was one of the men who had followed Rawson as
he caught a taxi from the airport to Cairo.

'He's staying at the Golden Eagle Hotel in central

Cairo,' the man reported. 'We spoke to the Conciérge and
found out Rawson has booked Room 214 for three days.'

Jabril made a note. 'What is the Conciérge's name?'

A few minutes later Jabril spoke to the frightened

Conciérge at the Golden Eagle Hotel, who thought the
Englishman named Rawson must be a killer, given all the
official interest in him. But if the Conciérge didn't act
naturally Rawson would sense it and might call-off his
mission. Then Jabril would be starting from Square One
with the next assassin, who might kill President Nasser
before they could identify the assassin and stop him.

'We are a Branch of the Tax Department,' Jabril lied to

reassure the Conciérge. 'We think this man owes us money
and we just want to talk to him about it, that's all.'

'I see,' the Conciérge sounded calmer. He would have

sympathized with a fellow-Egyptian who tried to minimize
his Tax, but not with an Englishman. 'Any way I can help,
I will. Blasted foreigners, trying to cheat Egypt out of
her Taxes.' The Conciérge now sounded angry, which was
good. Anger was more useful to Jabril than fear.

'Well, as it happens,' Jabril told him, 'you can help us.

Act friendly towards Mr Rawson, talk to him and find out
what you can, then call me.' Jabril gave the Conciérge a
number, and arranged for that number to be diverted here
to Olivia's apartment. The time was now 1.55 PM.

It was around half an hour later when the Conciérge

phoned Jabril. 'Mr Rawson has gone out to buy jerry-cans
and camping-gear. He told me he'll be driving into the
desert in a few day's time. He asked me about hiring a
Jeep and I directed him to the Rent-A-Car company who
operate from the hotel carpark. We have an arrangement
with the Rent-A-Car people, who told me Mr Rawson has
hired a green Jeep for two weeks. It has Egyptian plates:
56-1138-10.'

Jabril's hoarse voice repeated back the details to ensure

he'd written them down correctly. 'Is there anything else
you can tell me about this Englishman?'

The Conciérge was silent for a moment. 'Mr Rawson wants

to examine rock-formations in the Qattara Depression.'

Jabril remembered the Customs Officer mentioning the

Qattara Depression as the supposed reason why Rawson had
come to Egypt. Jabril said: 'He wants to examine rocks at
the Qattara Depression?'

'Rock-formations,' the Conciérge corrected him.

'Rock-formations.' Jabril made a note about it.

'The Qattara Depression is in Egypt's Western Desert,'

the Conciérge told him. 'I can tell you something about
it, because Mr Rawson asked me to point it out on a map
he has. The map shows the Depression is about two hundred
miles long and one hundred miles wide: a huge wilderness
of salt-lakes, marshes and quicksand, which at the
northern end is within thirty miles of the coast at El
Alamein.'

'I've heard about it,' Jabril said. 'In the Second World
War the British Army chose El Alamein as the place to
defend Egypt because, with the Qattara Depression close
by and impassable to vehicles, it prevented the Germans
from outflanking them. The Germans sent Army engineers
into the Qattara Depression to find a way through for
their trucks and tanks, but the engineers never came
back. They all just disappeared.'

'I am not surprised,' the Conciérge said. 'On Mr Rawson's

map there are many warnings about cliffs, quicksand,
sink-holes and crocodiles in the Depression. And that
huge maze of salt-lakes and marshes, it would be very
easy to get lost. Apparently magnetic rocks out there
mean that compasses don't always work.'

'Good grief!' Jabril said. 'Who would want to go into

such a place? If Mr Rawson goes there he could have a
nasty accident.' Jabril paused, talking to someone else
for a moment, then he came back on the phone. 'Is there a
number I can call you on? When I phone you, my call will
be routed through a Public Telephone, which is where the
call will appear to have come from.'

'You can do that?' the Conciérge was astounded.

'I can do anything,' Jabril's rasping voice joked.

The Conciérge gave the number of the phone in his office

behind the Conciérge Desk.

'Thank you,' Jabril said, as he wrote down the number.

'Your assistance is greatly appreciated. I'll make sure
you get a bonus of five hundred US Dollars, in addition
to the monthly retainer we pay you. If you learn any more
about Mr Rawson's plans, please call me.' And with that,
he'd hung up.

Chapter 5

At 2.40 PM that Friday, 2nd of May 1969, Omar Jabril made

the phone calls to alert Egyptian Intelligence to the
presence of yet another British assassin, this time in
the heart of Cairo. Once again Jabril's boss,
Intelligence General Salah, agreed with Jabril's proposed
course of action and told Jabril to 'get on with it'.

It was possible this British spy, Charles Rawson, might

know things that Fordyce hadn't known, so he would have
to be interrogated. Of course Rawson wouldn't want to
tell them anything, but the black girl Olivia would soon
loosen his tongue with that 'Enthrallment' interrogation-
method of hers. Jabril's mind kept going back to the fact
that Rawson had hired a Jeep and was buying camping-gear.
Like he was intending to go somewhere remote, where the
conditions were too rugged for a normal car. If Rawson
was here to complete Fordyce's mission of killing the
Egyptian President, the Jeep and camping-gear could be
part of his escape-plan for getting out of Egypt
afterwards.

'Sweet Fatima,' Jabril muttered under his breath. He'd

just realized that he was assuming Rawson had been sent
to Egypt to kill President Nasser, as Fordyce had been.
But what if Rawson was up to something else? He went over
the facts in his mind:
 British spy named Rawson. Pretending to be a
Geologist, which gave him an excuse to go anywhere.
 Rawson was keeping away from the British Embassy in
Cairo, hiring the Jeep privately, buying his own
camping-gear and so on.

Conclusion: Whatever Rawson was up to, he didn't trust

the British Embassy in Cairo. Jabril wouldn't blame him.
Six years earlier, in 1963, a high-ranking British spy
named Philby had defected to the Russians, taking with
him knowledge of British networks in the Middle East,
including Egypt.

Jabril rubbed his chin and thought: As Rawson is on his

own, he might try to buy a gun before heading off into
the desert. He picked up the phone in Olivia's apartment
and called the section of Egyptian Intelligence who
monitor gun-dealers. He asked them to send to his office
by urgent Telex, a list of all the major gun-suppliers in
Cairo, of both the legitimate and illegal variety.

Leaving Olivia's apartment at 2.50 PM, he saw the note

she'd left him on the ice-box, read it and pocketed it.
Leaving the apartment, he locked the door on the latch as
he went out, then took the stairs down to street-level
and walked to his car. It only took fifteen minutes to
drive to the Army Base where his Intelligence Unit was
located, and as he entered his office his secretary Anya
smiled and glanced at the clock on the wall.

'I was expecting you back hours ago,' she said, 'so you
must have scored with Olivia.' Anya and Jabril had been
lovers for three months when Anya first came to work for
him, but now they were just friends. Still, it was
pointless for him to try and lie to Anya, so he told her
the truth: that he'd slept with Olivia.

'That's great, Omar,' Anya was pleased, for she was with
another man now, who was an Egyptian Intelligence officer
like she was. Like Omar Jabril was. 'It's about time you
had a woman in your life, instead of those young tarts.'

Jabril could have said that Olivia was only nineteen, but
now wasn't the time. In any case, with the sort of life
Olivia had led, she was a very mature nineteen year-old.
Jabril phoned the Communications Section and told them he
was now at his office, so calls coming from the Conciérge
of the Golden Eagle Hotel should be diverted to his phone
here. There was a clattering noise from the adjoining
Telex Room and Jabril and Anya both went in. Anya took
the pages from the machine, turned and handed them to
Jabril. It was the list of gun-dealers that he'd asked
for earlier. Jabril went back to his office, sat at his
desk and studied the list as he used the Intercom to
summon his four deputies to a meeting in ten minutes, in
his office. The deputies were the Leaders of Squads One,
Two, Three and Four, of Jabril's ultra-secret
Intelligence Unit.

Jabril called in Anya and gave her the list of gun-

dealers. 'Run off five copies: one for me, one for each
of the Squad Leaders. File the original.'

A little while later, at 3.36 PM, as Jabril was briefing

his four Squad Leaders about the arrival in Cairo of the
British spy Charles Rawson, Anya came in with the list of
gun-dealers and gave everyone a copy. Jabril gave them a
couple of minutes to read the list, then he ordered the
Leader of Squad Two, the 'watchers', to post men near the
premises of the main illegal gun-dealers in Cairo. If the
British spy visited any of them he should be photographed
and Jabril was to be informed immediately, but no other
action was to be taken. Within one hour 'watchers' were
observing Cairo's major illicit gun-suppliers.

Jabril told the Squad Leaders that Rawson was staying in

Room 214 of the Golden Eagle Hotel in Cairo, and that he
had hired a green Jeep with Egyptian plates 56-1138-10.
The leader of Squad Three, the 'followers', was told to
put a 'tail' on Rawson. Within ninety minutes several
'followers' were in place: two watching the hotel lobby;
several more in cars monitoring all exits from the Golden
Eagle Hotel's underground carpark.

Jabril ordered the leader of Squad One, the technical

'boffins', to put an electronic tracking device on
Rawson's hired Jeep, and if possible to 'bug' the
telephone in Rawson's hotel room.

Omar Jabril told his secretary to Telex all legitimate

gun-dealers in Egypt and warn them not to sell any
firearms to foreigners until further notice, and to
report back if they were approached by a foreigner
looking to make such a purchase.

At 3.59 PM Jabril telephoned the black girl Olivia at her

apartment in Cairo, briefly described the situation
regarding the British spy and assassin named Rawson, and
ordered Olivia to report to him at once.
'Yes, Sir,' Olivia spoke formally to her lover. 'Using
the bus, I should get there in about forty-five minutes.'

'Take a taxi, Olivia,' Jabril told her. 'And try to

remember, we always use first names in my Unit. Use of
'Sir' or 'Captain' would alert anyone listening-in that
we're not civilians. Understand?'

'Yes, Sir,' Olivia pulled herself up. 'I mean yes, Omar.'

'That's fine,' Jabril laughed. 'And remember Olivia __

take a taxi to get here. Get a receipt from the driver
and you will be reimbursed. See you soon.'

'Yes, Omar,' she said. There was a click as Jabril hung

up.

Finally, he called the three Arab guys Yusuf, Kamil and

Hussein, who were in Marsa Matruh, and told them to use
the car that had been left with them to drive to Cairo.

'Do we have another mission, Sir?' Yusuf asked. The

enthusiasm in his voice made Jabril smile.

'Yes,' Jabril had laughed. 'But don't get too excited

Double Oh Seven. Just drive safely, get to Cairo as soon
as possible, and report to me at my office. Do you know
where my office is?'

Yusuf laughed. 'You're located at the Army Base on Az

Zaqaziq Road, in Ash Sharqiyah. I was talking to Olivia
on the phone a few days ago, and she told me.'

'I wonder why she did that?' Jabril asked. He didn't

expect an answer, but he got one anyway.

'Oh, that's easy, Sir,' Yusuf said. 'Sometimes she knows

stuff and there's no way that she could know it, but she
knows it anyway. And sometimes she knows about things
before they happen. Like, when Hussein broke his arm,
Olivia dreamed it was going to happen the day before, so
she had painkillers, Penicillin, bandagaes and a splint
in her shoulder-bag when it happened.'

'My word,' Jabril said with feeling. 'I knew that girl
was special, but I had no idea how special. Now you must
remember __ we don't use 'sir' in my Intel Unit. And we
don't use ranks either. First-names only, Yusuf, okay?'
'Yes sir . . . um . . . I mean . . . yes, Omar,' Yusuf
stuttered. 'Sorry, Omar.'

'Don't worry about it,' Jabril told him. 'Just get here
safely. After the marvellous job the four of you did on
the Fordyce mission, I'd hate to lose some of you in
something as pointless as a motor-car accident.

'Will Olivia be working with us on this, Omar?' Yusuf

asked.

'Yes,' Jabril said, his rasping voice suddenly very

gentle. 'You guys think the world of her, don't you?'

'Yes we do.' Yusuf paused, not sure of himself. 'There is

one thing, Omar, which most Muslim men can't understand.'

'And what would that be, Yusuf?'

'When the four of us are together, Olivia, Kamil, Hussein

and me, well the thing is we operate really well together
and . . . um . . . Olivia is the boss.'

'That doesn't surprise me at all,' Omar Jabril laughed.

'The Muslim scholar who decreed that a man must always be
in charge, never met Olivia. She is what's called a
'natural leader' Yusuf. And I will ensure that the four
of you work together as a team, whenever possible.'

'Thank you Omar,' Yusuf said. 'The others are ready to go

now. See you tomorrow, maybe around lunchtime.'

'May Allah bless you and look after you on your journey,'
Jabril gave the Muslim version of the old Egyptian toast
that dated back to the time of the Pharoahs.

'May Allah watch over you always.' Yusuf replied without

thinking, completing the equally-ancient reply. There was
a click as Yusuf hung-up.

Jabril hung up and rubbed his chin. He envisaged that his

four new 'star recruits' would primarily be working with
Squad Four of his Intelligence Unit. Squad Four were
known as the 'undertakers'.

---oooOooo---

As she was already in Cairo, Olivia was the first of the

four new-recruits to reach Omar Jabril's office. She
arrived thirty-eight minutes after Jabril had spoken to
her on the phone, and a minute later the clock on his
office wall showed 4.38 PM as Anya led her into Jabril's
office. Anya then left, closing the door as she did.

'You sleep here sometimes,' Olivia told him as she looked

around his office. The door she'd just walked through led
into the outer-office, where his secretary sat. Jabril's
desk faced that door and there were three doors in the
wall behind him. They were all shut and the black girl
giggled and pointed at the one on the right. 'You sleep
in there, on an old couch.'

'What color is the couch?'

'Beige.'

Olivia knew straight-away that she was right, because

Jabril looked completely gob-smacked. She smiled and sat
down on a wooden chair facing Jabril's desk. The door
opened and Anya stuck her head in. 'I'm going home now,
Omar, unless you need me for something?'

'No, you run along Anya,' Jabril said. 'See you Monday.'
He eyed Olivia, wanting to ask how she knew the color of
the couch in his back-room, when she'd never been in
there. Like Yusuf had said, she just 'knew stuff'.

The nineteen year-old black girl stood up, picked up the

wooden chair and carried it over to Jabril's desk. She
used the chair as a 'step' to climb up onto his desk. Her
green dress was rather short and as she began dancing on
his desktop, the Egyptian man looked up the dress and saw
she was wearing black panties. As Olivia's dance became
more suggestive, her hips began to gyrate wildly, her
long slim brown thighs opened up more, and that was when
Jabril realized the black thing between her thighs wasn't
her panties. It was her cunt.

Both shocked and excited, Omar Jabril grew an erection,

and he was torn between wanting to watch Olivia's sensual
dancing, and his growing desire to fuck her.

'Go lock the door and turn-off the lights,' the black
girl told him. As Jabril went to do what she'd said,
Olivia pulled her dress up and off, over her head, then
she took off her bra. The office was in darkness as the
Egyptian made his way back to the desk, then Olivia
switched-on the desk-lamp and Jabril was stunned to see
that she was now naked in her high-heeled shoes. Her tall
brown body was generally slim, yet her breasts were huge.
Despite their size her tits stood up firm, without need
of a bra, which told Jabril her underlying muscle-tone
must be rock-hard. She turned away from him for a moment
and he saw her brown ass was big and round, and combined
with a tiny waist to give the black girl a staggering
curve of hip. Olivia turned to face him and from the
thunderstruck look on his face, she knew this man was
hers. As an Egyptian Intelligence officer Jabril wielded
immense power, at thirty-eight years old he was twice
Olivia's age and he was also her boss, but right now he
was just a guy wanting to fuck her. So despite
everything, it was Olivia who was in charge here.

'Take your clothes off and sit on the chair,' she ordered
him. Jabril hurriedly ripped his clothes off and once he
was sitting naked on the chair she climbed down from the
desktop. Eyeing his erection, she came naked and smiling
to where he sat, and the way she moved reminded Jabril of
a sleek agile black panther closing-in on it's prey.

Sitting on his lap with her back to him, she guided his
erection into her soft warm vagina, and the muscle-bound
Egyptian man groaned out loud in appreciation. He went on
groaning as her big round brown ass surged in and out of
his lap and her pussy began pulling his hard cock. Having
come so many times earlier in the day, he was now happy
to let the black girl do all the work, and she set about
it with a will. After a while she started to rotate on
his erect penis, moving in small arcs until she was
sitting 'side-saddle' across his lap. As her well-oiled
vagina continued to slide up and down on his penis, she
kept twisting around on it, slowly and gently, and she
soon had the man grunting and gasping and grinning like
he'd never known it could be this good, for the gentle
twisting of his stiff penis was unbelievably stimulating.

The black girl was facing towards Jabril now, gazing at

him as she impaled herself on the long hard spear of his
sex. As the Egyptian felt his orgasm drawing nearer he
started making a strange high-pitched wailing noise
because his stiff penis felt like it was ten feet long
inside the girl, and the pleasure emanating from it was
so great, it was making him feel 'high'. His eyes were
shut tight and his face had a smile on it that was about
a mile wide. A man could die like this, and he wouldn't
mind at all.

Olivia was watching him, her eyes big and round, staring
manically from a lovely brown face that was cool and
composed. One of her brown hands moved in between
Jabril's legs.
'Come', the girl commanded. Her hand moved and as the
man's body obeyed the hand and the command, and he dearly
wanted to scream. He opened his mouth and made the sound
'O', then the joy of his spasm made him pass-out, only to
be awoken by the spasm which followed. With the joy even
greater, he said 'O', passed-out for a second, then was
woken by the next spasm. The spasms were brief but mind-
bendingly ecstatic and they came in a stream, one after
the other, growing stronger and more beautiful all the
time, until Jabril was screaming out loud and clutching
onto the black girl's hips as if his life depended on it.

Chapter 6

After checking-in to the Golden Eagle Hotel at 1.45 PM

and then hiring the Jeep, Charles Rawson had spent thirty
minutes in his room preparing a 'shopping list' of things
he would need to buy. His instincts told him that
planning would be critical on this one, and Rawson's
instincts were usually good. When he was eighteen he'd
joined the British Army and because he spoke German, he
had been assigned to Army Intelligence on the Rhine. It
was 1956 and people in British political, military and
intelligence circles were awake to the fact that Soviet
Communism was as dangerous as Hitler had been. In 1959,
aged twenty-one, Rawson transfered to the British Secret
Service and here he was, ten years later, still working
for them. The white Englishman had longish blonde hair
and was aged 30. At six feet (183 centimeters) he was
quite tall, and he cut a dashing figure in his cream
linen suit. He was a Karate-expert, and his heavily-
callused hands had killed one enemy-agent during his ten
years in the Secret Service. He was known as a 'ladies
man' and several of the female secretaries in the Service
had been bedded by him, including a Cipher Clerk named
Julie who had borne him a daughter. The little girl
Jacinta was now aged 5 and while everyone in the Service
knew Julie was a single-mother, no-one knew that it was
Charles Rawson who'd fathered her child.

As he worked on the list of what he needed to buy, Rawson

made himself a cup of tea in the kitchenette of his hotel
room. There was a knock at the door and he grinned
wolfishly, thinking it might be the hotel-maid he'd been
chatting-up earlier. But when he opened the door he was
disappointed to find a technician from the Egyptian Post
Office, here to check that the phone in Rawson's room was
working properly. As the man wore Post Office overalls
Rawson didn't ask to see ID, and he paid no attention as
the technician unscrewed the telephone's base-plate. The
man was gone within five minutes and the Englishman
thought nothing more about it, but his phone was now
bugged, and Omar Jabril's 'boffins' would henceforth hear
every conversation that he had on it.

After the technician had gone Rawson finished his cup of

tea and went down to the hotel's underground carpark.
Some of Jabril's other 'boffins' had wanted to fit a
tracking device to his hired Jeep while it was sitting in
the carpark, but there were too many people around, for
the carpark was often used by shoppers going to a nearby
supermarket. Blissfully unaware of his luck, Rawson got
into the Jeep, drove out of the underground carpark and
headed to the workshop of a local carpenter whose address
he'd found in the Cairo Telephone Directory.

After listening to the Englishman, the Arab carpenter

agreed to construct a very large and sturdy plywood box.
It was to sit in the cargo-bay at the rear of the Jeep
and would be tied down with ropes to hold it in place.
Rawson said he wanted the box to be four feet high and
after measuring the Jeep's cargo-bay, the carpenter named
his price for making the box. Rawson wanted to pick it up
tomorrow and offered to pay more if the carpenter could
meet that deadline. The carpenter would have to put some
other jobs on hold, but the money was too good to refuse,
so he agreed. He told Rawson to telephone early the next
morning, to find out when the box would be ready.

Paying half the agreed fee 'up-front' and then leaving

the carpenter, Rawson began driving around camping-stores
in inner-Cairo. At the first store he bought four big
canvas-bags, two coils of rope, and four metal jerry-cans
suitable for carrying fuel or water. At a supermarket he
bought a large sack of rice, lots of tinned-food and
cooking-oil, plus tea, sugar and powdered-milk. These
purchases filled one of the canvas-bags, and Rawson used
some of the rope to tie the bag closed, then tie it to
chains welded to the floor of the Jeep's cargo-bay.

Visiting another camping-store, the Englishman bought a

mirror, a small kerosene-powered camping-stove, bottles
of Kerosene, an oil-lamp plus bottles of oil, several
boxes of waterproof matches, a billy-can to make tea or
coffee, and a compass. At a third camping-store he bought
a tent and a sleeping-bag, three canvas tarpaulins, a
broad-brimmed hat, sunglasses, and a medium-sized knife
in a leather scabbard. All of this went into a second
canvas-bag, except for the hat and sunglasses, which he
wore, and the knife in it's scabbard, which went into his
left sock where it was hidden by the leg of his long
linen trousers. He tied the second canvas bag down beside
the first and the shallow cargo-bay of the Jeep was now
completely full, so he drove back to the carpark of the
Golden Eagle Hotel, where his arrival was noted by two
'followers' working for Omar Jabril, who sat in a Hillman
car. Two hotel porters helped Rawson to carry his
purchases up to his room, and the Englishman gave each of
them a good 'tip'. The porters were grinning as they left
his room and returned to the hotel lobby.

At the stores he visited Rawson had paid for everything

in Egyptian Pounds, some of the cash he'd smuggled into
Egypt in the lining of his large backpack. His wallet was
now depleted, but he decided to leave his US Dollars
hidden in the backpack. However his purchases were not
yet complete and he'd need more money, so he locked his
room and took the stairs down to the lobby. At the main
Reception Desk he showed ID and retrieved his Traveler's
Checks from the hotel safe. Keeping enough Checks to
change into one thousand Egyptian Pounds, he returned the
rest of his Traveler's Checks to the safe.

It was now 4.15 PM and in Cairo in 1969, the banks closed

at five. So the Englishman hurried out of the hotel and
went to three different banks that were located nearby.
At each bank he cashed enough Traveler's Checks to obtain
250 Egyptian Pounds, and after visiting the third bank he
returned to the hotel. Standing in line at the Cashier's
window in the lobby, he changed the last of his
Traveler's Checks into another 250 Pounds.

His wallet now bulged with one thousand Egyptian Pounds

in cash, a small fortune in Egypt at this time, and
Rawson called in to the shop in the hotel lobby, where he
was able to buy a money-belt. In this he could carry his
'stash of cash' hidden under his trousers. From the shop
he also purchased a copy of the The Times newspaper from
London.

It was now 5.10 PM and the Englishman knew that many

businesses in Egypt would now be closed. There were still
things that he needed to buy for his trip into Egypt's
Western Desert, but they would have to wait until
tomorrow.

Taking his copy of the The Times into the Golden Eagle
Hotel's restaurant, Rawson sat at a table, ordered the
Grilled Sole and Salad, plus a bottle of white wine, and
read his newspaper until the meal arrived. Afterwards he
went up to his room and telephoned a Dutchman named Henk,
who supplied guns to half the criminals in Cairo. After
introducing himself as a friend of Jacques The Limp, a
notorious French hitman, he told Henk that he was in need
of some 'hardware'.

'What sort of hardware did you have in mind?'

'Something from 1911 would be good,' the Englishman told

him. The Colt .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol was known
as a '1911' because that was the year when the weapon had
first been mass-produced at the Colt factory. Later it
would become famous as the side-arm issued to US Army
officers. If Henk didn't have a '1911', a Walther or a
Beretta would do, but Henk assured him he had a '1911'
for sale.

They agreed to meet at 7.00 PM the following evening and

Henk gave the address of his home in the northern suburbs
of Cairo.

Rawson scribbled the details down in his pocket-diary,

then went into his room's kitchenette and made himself a
cup of tea. He drank it standing on the balcony of his
second-floor hotel room, looking out on Cairo as it
basked in the warmth of late-afternoon. Tomorrow would be
a busy day, so the Englishman went to bed early.

Chapter 6

Rising at 6.00 AM on the morning of Saturday, May 3,

1969, Rawson showered and shaved. After transfering most
of the cash in his wallet into his newly-acquired money-
belt, he put on the money-belt, dressed in one of his
linen suits and slipped the knife into his left sock,
where it was hidden under the leg of his long trousers.
After putting on his hat and sunglasses, and with his
large backpack slung over one shoulder, he went down to
the hotel's restaurant and enjoyed a breakfast of fried
eggs, bacon, beans and toast, which he washed-down with
his habitual cup of tea.

Walking out of the Golden Eagle Hotel, the white

Englishman crossed the street to a market-Bazaar that
opened early in the morning. At a clothing stall run by a
wrinkled old Egyptian woman clad in long black Muslim
robes, he bought a number of shirts and long pants, all
made from heavy-duty cotton, which he would wear on his
excursion into the Western Desert of Egypt. The old lady
showed him to a curtained area at the back of her stall,
where he could try on the clothes.

After changing back into his linen suit, he put the

clothes into his backpack, paid what was owing and moved
on to another stall, where he bought a pair of ankle-
boots. At a stall that sold hardware items he bought a
flashlight and spare batteries, an adjustable wrench, a
set of screwdrivers, one and a half gallons of engine-
oil, and a hand-operated pump for inflating car tires.

With his large backpack now full, he walked back to the

hotel and went up to his room. At 8.30 AM he phoned the
carpenter, who surprised him by saying that the plywood
box was already finished.

'Everything worked out perfectly,' the carpenter said in

Arabic. 'The problems I had anticipated didn't arise. You
can pick up the box whenever you like.'

'That's great news. I'll be right over,' Rawson told him

in Arabic. With his gift for languages, Rawson was able
to speak, read and write Russian and German, and thanks
to having a grandmother from Munich, he spoke German like
a native. While he could speak Arabic okay, he couldn't
manage the written form of the language at all.

As Rawson left his room and went to where the hired Jeep
was parked in the hotel's underground carpark, he was
unaware that during the night an agent from Omar Jabril's
section had visited the carpark and placed a radio
tracking device on the Jeep, so if he drove into the
desert he could be followed at such a great distance that
he would never suspect anything. The tracking device was
the size of a pack of cigarettes and the powerful magnet
in it's base allowed it to be attached to the underside
of the Jeep's chassis. The batteries in the device would
only last for three days, so Jabril's 'boffins' would
replace them each night while the Jeep sat in the hotel
carpark.

Rawson started the Jeep and as he drove out of the

hotel's underground carpark, his departure was noted by
two of Omar Jabril's 'followers', who sat in an old
Pontiac sedan. They pulled out from the kerb and followed
the Englishman to the carpenter's workshop. Aided by the
tracking device on the Jeep, the 'followers' stayed well
back, and in the heavy Cairo traffic Rawson had no idea
he was being tailed.

The plywood box was gigantic, providing plenty of storage

space, and when Rawson and the carpenter lifted it onto
the rear cargo-bay of the Jeep, it fitted perfectly.
Rawson produced ropes, with which he tied the box down so
it wouldn't move. The gigantic box was four-feet high,
fully-enclosed, with a single shelf inside and a door at
the back that could be locked with a padlock. There was
an old padlock lying on one of the carpenter's shelves
and Rawson offered to pay him well above the mark for it,
because it would save him the trouble of visiting a
locksmith.

The Arab carpenter laughed and found the key for the
padlock in a drawer, put the padlock on the door of the
giant box and locked it, then presented Rawson with the
key. The Englishman paid what was owing for the box, then
handed the carpenter three Egyptian Pounds for the
padlock, and they shook hands.

The old padlock wasn't worth anywhere near three Pounds,

but the Arab carpenter was an easy guy to like, and he'd
done a first-rate job of constructing the plywood box, so
Rawson was happy to pay him a little extra.

As he drove back to the hotel, the Englishman found that

having the gigantic plywood box on the back made no
difference to how the Jeep handled, but it DID block his
view in the rear-view mirror. It was an inconvenience
while driving in a big city like Cairo, but tomorrow
night he'd be heading out into Egypt's Western Desert,
and the lack of a working rear-view mirror would no
longer matter.

He lay on the bed in his hotel room and used his

cigarette-lighter to light a cigarette. He was supposed
to have quit, but the nicotine helped him to think. He
spent a couple of hours going over his plans in his mind,
then at Noon he stripped and had a shower. After
toweling-off he dressed in his linen suit and the new
ankle-boots he'd bought that morning. With his knife in
his left sock, hidden under the leg of his long pants, he
slipped on his sunglasses and broad-brimmed hat, left his
room and went down to have lunch in the hotel's
restaurant.

Chapter 7

At the same time in Egypt's Western Desert, close to the

Libyan border and about two hundred and sixty miles south
of the Mediterranean coast, in the spy-training camp that
was run by the KGB, the Russian Commandant of the camp
was reviewing the files of some of his recruits.

They were drawn from nearly every Western nation on

Earth, young men and women of different races and
religions, but one thing they had in common was that they
were politically 'radical'. Another thing they had in
common was they each spoke several languages, and could
blend into various cultures.

After six months at the KGB spy-training camp in the

Egyptian desert they were all expert with guns, knives,
explosives, Karate and Naked Killing. They had also
learned the basics of spy-tradecraft, which included the
use of radios, ciphers, Secret Writing, Dead-Letter
drops, tailing people, and shaking off those who wanted
to tail them. The very best recruits were kept on for
another three months of Special Training.

Now Captain Jabril of Egyptian Intelligence wanted to use

twenty of the recruits to help with the tracking, capture
and interrogation of a British spy named Charles Rawson.
The Russian Commandant liked the idea because, while
training is essential, there is nothing like experience,
and a real mission was the best way to 'blood' his
recruits. After reviewing the files, the Russian KGB man
selected twenty young women and men who would have the
honor of assisting Jabril's Squad Four, who were also
known as the 'undertakers'.

---oooOooo---

When people entered the KGB spy-training camp in the

Western Desert of Egypt they had to undergo a total break
from their past life, and to aid in this process each
resruit was assigned a new name.

So the black American girl who had been born in 1950 in

Flint, Michigan, to a family of black African immigrants,
was known at the KGB spy-camp as Olivia. Her mother and
her father knew her by a different name, but she no
longer had any contact with them, so it didn't matter to
her.

At fourteen years of age she'd run away from home and had
spent a year living on the streets of Harlem, doing
whatever it took to survive. Then she caught the eye of
some black musicians at a concert in New York, she'd been
invited backstage after the show. She'd been a big 'hit'
with them and they took her back to Detroit, shared her
among themselves for a while, then introduced her to some
other 'musos'. She'd spent two years as a 'groupie'
hanging around the Black Music scene, had traveled all
over America and then found herself back in New York
City. Having spent the last three years drugging and
fucking, seventeen year-old Olivia was 'all growed up' by
the time she met a thirty year-old black guy called
Lonnie.
Lonnie was a bank-robber, holdup-man and Leader of the
Hidden Hand, an untra-radical and violent Afro-American
group, who were so obsessed with secrecy that few people
had ever heard of them. The shorthand for Hidden Hand was
H H, and as 'H' is the eighth letter of the alphabet,
oblique mention of them appeared in some Police and FBI
Reports, where they were referred to as '88 Group', or
'the 88', or just '88'. Havin fallen for Olivia big-time,
Lonnie set her up in a fancy apartment on the Upper East
Side of Manhattan, which was paid for with three jewelry-
store heists and a bank robbery. At the apartment Olivia
met lots of weird and dangerous people, and she'd fucked
most of them. Lonnie truly loved her, but he was aware of
their age-difference and kept saying that he didn't want
to 'own' her. So Olivia was free to do WHAT she wanted,
and sleep with WHO she wanted.

At the Manhattan apartment Olivia was introduced to

Caviar and Cocaine, and when he was 'high' one time, she
got Lonnie to make a Will, in which she would get the
apartment and a stack of money if he was to die. Two
years later Lonnie died of a massive heart-attack, a
result of too much Caviar, Cocaine and Olivia, and as she
was a few months short of eighteen, the apartment was put
under the control of Court-appointed Trustee. The Trustee
was a conservative old white lawyer who disapproved of
Olivia's politics, friends and lifestyle, and when her
eighteenth birthday rolled around, he told her that he
wasn't prepared to sign the apartment over to her 'at
this time'. Whatever that meant.

As Lonnie's 'widow', Olivia had become very active in the

Hidden Hand, who were working with the New York office of
the Soviet KGB to sabotage miltary bases and public
utilities in the United States. When she told a female
KGB agent what the old lawyer was doing, the Russian
woman told Olivia how to handle him. So Olivia removed
her nose-ring, started wearing conservative dresses and
stopped swearing in front of the old white man. He was
very skeptical at first, but after finding out that he
liked Apple Pie, she learned how to make it, and took her
home-made Apple Pie to his office one Friday afternoon,
when she had a scheduled appointment to see him.

The old white lawyer liked her Apple Pie, to which Olivia
had added crushed-up parts of the Blue Lotus plant, the
natural source of a chemical that years later would be an
active ingredient in Viagra. Once his secretary went home
Olivia got the old man hard, and he stayed hard for the
entire weekend, which he spent in his office with her. By
the time Monday came, the old white lawyer had ended his
Trusteeship and signed the apartment over to Olivia. At
4.00 AM on Monday morning she left him sleeping, sprawled
out naked on the office couch, and when his secretary
found him like that four hours later she rang a Partner
of the law-firm. He'd raced in from his mansion on Park
Avenue, heard the weird things his boss was saying, and
called a Psychiatrist. The conservative old lawyer was
wheeled away in a strait-jacket, while his secretary took
early retirement and an outstandingly-generous Departure
Package in return for signing a non-disclosure agreement.

The way that Olivia had handled the situation was known
to the KGB, and they realized she had talents that could
be useful. After she'd attended a meeting of the Hidden
Hand movement one night, the female KGB agent she was
friendly with took Olivia to a Safe House to meet the KGB
Rezident, the man in charge of all KGB operations in the
United States. The KGB woman left Olivia alone with the
Rezident, who was courteous and charming, but she sensed
the power and ruthlessness behind the civilized mask. He
had been drinking constantly from a bottle of vodka and
as he got drunk, he began telling Olivia about the heroic
exploits of KGB Agents in America, about the even greater
exploits planned for the future, and how she could be a
part of all that. Around Midnight he slid his hand up her
skirt and tried to kiss her and she'd grabbed hold of his
balls, not hurting him, but letting the guy know that she
could hurt him if she wanted to.

'If this is how you recruit females,' the black girl had
smiled at the Russian, 'you should know I AM interested
in serving the Cause. But if you ever try to touch me
again, you'll be walking funny for a week.' The KGB man
laughed and dropped the drunk act, and when Olivia took a
sip from his glass, she found it contained water. She
grabbed the vodka bottle and took a swig from it. Water.

'You really are very good,' the KGB Rezident told her. He
explained how Olivia could best serve the Cause and she
agreed to go to the KGB spy-training camp in Egypt, where
she would learn how to kill people and blow shit up. So
nine months ago, in August 1968, she'd come to the spy-
camp for six months of training. But because she was one
of the best recruits, Olivia had been chosen to do an
extra three months of Special Training.

'Special' was the right word for it. She thought she knew
about sex? The KGB added a whole new dimension to her
knowledge and skills. Interrogation and torture? They
taught her about those things too. She also learned about
smuggling, including the fact that girls have more places
to hide stuff in than guys. With training and daily
exercise of the vagina, surprisingly large objects can be
carried inside a woman. Olivia recalled that when her
family migrated from Africa to America they'd smuggled-in
gold bars, but no-one had ever said HOW they'd smuggled
in the gold bars. Olivia now believed she knew. Every
time she thought about her Mother and Aunts walking
around with gold bars up them, she fell laughing until
she almost wet herself.

Today she was in the girl's Sex Class, learning how to

'switch off' a guy's orgasm by touching him in a certain
way between his anus and his urethtra. The Indian woman
instructing them mentioned that a man's orgasm could also
be stopped by use of a Karate pressure-hold that knocked
him out. Olivia never got to hear any more because at
1300 Hours a KGB man came running into the room. He had
called Olivia and nine other girls out of the class and,
once they were outside, informed them they had been
selected for a special assignment.

---oooOooo---

Rawson had an appointment with Henk, the illegal gun-

dealer, at 5.00 PM that day. They were to meet at Henk's
house in the northern suburbs of Cairo, and Rawson
decided to go to the Dutchman's street a couple of hours
early, lie up somewhere, and make sure that the
authorities weren't planning to raid Henk. As an illegal
gun-dealer he would most likely be on someone's radar,
and Rawson didn't want to get caught in a Police raid.

The Englishman would never know it, but the 'followers'

working for Omar Jabril's Intelligence section had
trailed him from his hotel to the northern suburbs.
Helped by the tracking device on his Jeep, they'd kept so
far back that he hadn't even seen them.

The 'followers' noticed some of their colleagues from the

'watchers' squad, sitting in a car at the end of the
street, and waved at them as they drove past. The
'followers' saw the British spy park his hired Jeep
several streets away from the house of Henk Van Sluys, a
known illegal gun-dealer. Then Rawson had knocked on the
doors of nearby houses. When someone answered his knock
the Englishman would talk to them politely, perhaps
asking for directions to somewhere, then he'd leave and
move on to the next house. At the fifth house he tried,
no-one answered his knock on the front door. Rawson went
around to the backyard, climbed onto the roof of the
house and lay down on the roof at a point where he could
observe what was happening in the street.

After spending ninety minutes on the roof and seeing

nothing unusual in Henk's street, Rawson climbed down and
killed fifteen minutes by sitting on a park-bench. At
4.50 PM he had walked to Henk's house and knocked on the
front door.

The Dutch criminal and illegal gun-dealer answered the

door with a smile that revealed bad, nicotine-stained
teeth. 'Yes?' he asked in English.

'I'm Rawson,' the Englishman replied.

'Come in,' Henk stood aside from the door to let Rawson
enter. Henk had an Egyptian girlfriend __ there were
pictures of her and Henk in the living room __ but the
lady didn't seem to be at home. Her absence might not
mean anything, but Rawson filed it away in his mind
anyway. The only reason Rawson had survived for thirty-
one years as a British secret-agent was because he was
very cautious and extremely observant.

As Henk flicked a light-switch at the top of some stairs

and led him down into the basement of the house, the
Englishman noticed that one end of the basement had been
walled-off, but if there was another room behind the
wall, where was the door that gave access to it? The wall
that had been built was adorned with a large mirror in a
wooden frame, and to the right of the mirror a huge old
wardrobe sat up against the newly-built wall. Rawson's
attention returned to the mirror which, because it had a
wooden frame around it, appeared to be hanging from a
hook on the wall. Something about the mirror struck him
as odd, but he wasn't sure what it was.

The basement area was very dusty and footprints in the

dust led straight to the huge old wardrobe. In another
wall there was a fireplace, although why you'd need one
in the hot Egyptian climate was anybody's guess. In front
of the fireplace was a metal basket which contained three
cast-iron fire-pokers.

Henk walked over to a desk, slid open a drawer and took

out a Colt .45 semi-automatic pistol, the famous '1911'
that Rawson had mentioned on the phone. As soon as Henk
handed the gun to him, Rawson could tell by how light it
felt that the weapon wasn't loaded, but he went through
the motions of ejecting the magazine and pretending to be
surprised when he saw that it was empty.
'Do you have bullets for this?' the Englishman asked.

'Of course,' Henk smiled but made no move to produce

them. 'But I think we need to talk first. About why you
want a gun.'

'I'm going to be visiting some remote parts of Egypt,'

Rawson said. 'In such places there can be crocodiles,
hyenas, wild-dogs. That's why I need the gun.'

'What you need is a good knife,' the Dutchman grinned,

putting his bad teeth on display.

Rawson thought about the knife he carried in his left

sock, hidden under the leg of his long pants. 'Against a
crocodile?' Rawson asked.

A telephone rang in the house and Henk excused himself

and hurried up the stairs to answer it. While he was gone
the British spy went to the huge old wardrobe and tried
to open it, but it was locked. He looked at the mirror to
the left of the wardrobe and realized that it wasn't
hanging from a hook on the wall. The mirror was GLUED to
the wall, and someone had put a wooden frame around the
mirror to disguise the fact.

It's probably a one-way mirror, Rawson thought. From this

side it was a mirror, but to anyone in the darkened room
on the other side it was a window giving a clear view of
everyone who came into the basement. Including me, Rawson
realized. Henk might have a camera in there, taking
pictures of his customers. The Englishman could Henk
talking on the phone upstairs, so he quickly went to the
fireplace and grabbed one of the cast-iron pokers. Coming
back to the huge old wardrobe, he used the poker to force
open the door. The wardrobe was empty and in the back of
it was a door that led to the hidden room on the other
side of the wall. The mirror WAS a one-way job, and Henk
had an eight-millimeter movie camera set up, which was
filming everything inside the basement. Rawson switched
off the camera and ripped out the film, which would have
his image on it.

Through the one-way mirror Rawson saw Henk coming down

the stairs into the basement. He was holding a pistol in
his left hand and staring at the open door of the
wardrobe. Taking the knife from his left sock, Rawson
slid behind the open door and as Henk stepped through he
brought the knife up under the Dutchman's chin, slicing
upwards through the palate and into the brain, killing
him instantly. Relieving the dead man of his Beretta
nine-millimeter pistol, Rawson checked that it was loaded
and cocked, put the safety on, then slid it into the
waistband of his pants against the small of his back.

Shelves at the far end of the hidden room held rifles,

handguns, ammunition and cases of the explosive known as
'gelignite'. The British spy helped himself to three
spare magazines for the Beretta, loaded them with bullets
and pocketed them. Henk had a large collection of films,
presumably of gangsters and criminals who had come to buy
guns off him in the past. This type of film was highly
volatile and burned readily, so Rawson spilled reels of
film all over the floor of the hidden room, then placed
cases of gelignite on top of it. He trailed rolls of film
out through the wardrobe into the main basement area,
then continued the trail of film up the stairs, into the
house and all the way to the front door. When he lit the
film with a cigarette-lighter it burned white-hot and the
film acted like a fuse, carrying the flames down to the
basement and into the hidden room, where the floor was
littered in film with cases of gelignite sitting on top
of it. Went the gelignite exploded it would set off all
of the explosives and ammunition stored in the hidden
room. Having 'lit the fuse' the Englishman left the house
and walked quickly to where he'd left the Jeep.

He was a few yards short of the Jeep when the house blew
up in a great fireball, and the sound of the explosion
was heard for miles in every direction. Rawson climbed
calmly into the Jeep and drove slowly away. Rather than
driving straight to his hotel in the center of Cairo, he
instead went to an affluent suburb of Cairo, where he had
dinner at a very expensive seafood restaurant.

---oooOooo---

Because Henk Van Sluys had been storing a huge amount of

ammunition under his house, the explosion and fire that
levelled his house had caused the ammunition to 'cook
off' and the Cairo Fire Brigade couldn't get anywhere
near the house for hours. With a big hole in the ground
where Henk's house had been, six neighboring houses
flattened, other houses that were burning, and bullets
flying through the air from the ammunition as it 'cooked
off', the whole area looked like a War Zone.

All the firemen could do was spray water onto homes

further down the street that hadn't been flattened by the
explosion, in an attempt to save them from the fire. With
the combined effects of an explosion and a very 'hot'
fire, the body of Henk the illegal gun-dealer had been
reduced to dust, along with his photographic equipment
and his collection of films. Many of Cairo's criminals
and gangsters breathed a sigh of relief, because any
films or photographs showing them buying guns from that
kaffir Henk had all gone up in smoke.

Among the fatalities from the explosion were fifteen

people killed when neighboring houses collapsed or caught
fire, two young boys who had been flying their kites
nearby, plus the seven occupants of two cars which were
unfortunate enough to have been near Henk's house when it
exploded. In one of those cars had been a young doctor
and his wife, plus their three young daughters. They were
all dead, as were the two men who had been sitting in
another car that was parked approximately one fifty feet
from Henk's house.

'I'm so sorry about Abdel and Khalid.' In a rare show of

emotion, Omar Jabril embraced Daoud, the leader of Squad
Two, the 'watchers'. Abdel and Khalid were the 'watchers'
who had been parked just down the street from Henk Van
Sluys' home when it exploded, and the massive fireball
had turned both men into crisp black charcoal in a matter
of seconds.

'The British secret-agent Rawson did this.' Daoud's eyes

were burning as he looked at Jabril. 'He must be made to
pay.'

'He will pay,' Jabril told him in his rasping voice. The
reports from his agents in the teams of 'watchers' and
'followers' who had been in the area made it clear that
Henk's house had blown up just a few minutes after Rawson
was seen leaving it. There was also the evidence of the
tracking device that was attached to the Englishman's
Jeep. The Jeep had been parked two blocks away from
Henk's place for two hours prior to the explosion, and
had driven away sixty-five seconds after it.

Then that English ben-el-kalb had calmly driven to an

upmarket suburb of Cairo and enjoyed a meal of lobster
and oysters before driving back to his hotel in Cairo. As
Rawson had been inside the home of the gun-dealer Henk
Van Sluys, Jabril had to assume that the Englishman had
left with some sort of weapon. And it wasn't a rifle,
because Jabril agents who were watching Henk's house and
the others who were following Rawson had all agreed that,
when Rawson walked back to his Jeep from Henk's house, he
hadn't been carrying anything.
So if the Englishman had taken a weapon, it must have
been a handgun that fitted into his pocket. There was no
longer any point in Jabril's 'watchers' monitoring the
homes of Cairo's illegal gun-suppliers, because that bird
had already flown, so Jabril was reassigning them.

He had called in all of his agents to a meeting at 7.00

PM that Thursday, May 29. The only agents who didn't have
to attend were the two 'boffins' looking after the
tracking device on the Englishman's Jeep, and six
'followers' in three cars who would follow Rawson to Hell
if they had to.

It was almost seven o'clock now, so Omar Jabril left his

office and went downstairs to the Meeting Room, where he
found everyone in a somber mood. Jabril's secretary had
hung a large map of Egypt on the wall at the front of the
room, and she had distributed informations packages to
everyone as they'd walked in.

'We all know what happened to our friends Abdel and

Khalid a few hours ago,' Jabril addressed the assembled
Army Intelligence agents in his raspy voice, 'and now I
will tell you what we are going to do about the man who
murdered them.'

'At the moment Rawson is in Cairo,' using a large ruler

as a pointer, Jabril indicated Cairo on the map of Egypt.
'And we believe he intends to drive his hired Jeep to the
KGB spy-camp in the Western Desert, close to the LIbyan
border and two hundred and sixty miles south of the
Mediterranean coast.' Jabril pointed to the area on the
map.

'We are NOT going to arrest Rawson in Cairo, because if

we let him run, he may lead us to accomplices he has, and
we may learn things from the way that he operates and the
choices he makes.' Jabril paused, looking around at all
the agents gathered before him. 'The "boffins" will look
after the tracking device that they have placed on
Rawson's Jeep and the "followers" will continue to tail
him, but everyone else, including me, is going out into
the Western Desert.'

Jabril let that sink in, before he went on. 'You will
divide up into twenty teams, with four agents on each
team. Two agents will be 'watchers', one will be from the
'undertakers' squad, and the fourth member will be drawn
from the recruits at the KGB spy-camp who have finished
their training. Each team will be in a vehicle specially
adapted for work in the desert. All teams will be in
radio contact with each other and with me, at my command-
post in the town of Siwa.' Jabril pointed to Siwa on the
map.

'You will fan-out across the desert to intercept Rawson

as he approaches the KGB spy-training camp. Rawson will
be taken alive and preferably uninjured, interrogated for
every last scrap of information he has, then disposed of
in a manner befitting the man who murdered our friends
Abdel and Khalid, plus twenty-three other Egyptians.'

Several people had questions which he answered, and

Jabril could tell from the 'buzz' in the air that his
agents were all as eager as he was to get their hands on
Charles Rawson.

Chapter 5

Charles Rawson was nothing if not devious.

He had checked-in to Room 214 of the Golden Eagle Hotel

on Wednesday, May 28, 1969, booked the room for three
days and paid in advance. So he had the room for May 28,
29 and 30, and didn't have to check-out until Saturday
morning, May 31.

But thirty-one years of experience as a British spy had

taught him to avoid doing what was expected, so at 7.30
PM on the evening of Thursday, May 29, he began carrying
the things he'd purchased down to the hotel's underground
carpark and loading it into the gigantic plywood box on
the back of the Jeep. Unlocking the door on the back of
the box, he eyed the wooden shelf which divide the box
into top and bottom compartments.

He slid the large sack of rice into the bottom

compartment, together with a large canvas-bag containing
the tinned-food, cooking-oil, tea, sugar and powdered-
milk. A second canvas-bag containing the small camping-
stove, the oil-lamp and the billy-can went in next. The
plywood box was so voluminous that he still had space for
the tent and the sleeping-bag to go into the bottom
compartment.

Everything else went into the top compartment of the

giant plywood box: the four empty jerry-cans, the metal
drum containing one and a half gallons of engine-oil, the
hand-operated pump for inflating car tires, the
tarpaulins, and two spare canvas-bags. Into his large
backpack he put his spare clothes and all of the small
items, such as the waterproof matches, flashlight,
adjustable wrench, screwdrivers, compass, mirror and
ropes. The backpack then went into the top compartment of
the plywood box.

Locking the giant box on the back of the Jeep with the
padlock, Rawson went up to his room to have a shower.
About twenty minutes later, two of Omar Jabril's
'boffins' slipped into the underground carpark of the
hotel, and as one man acted as a Lookout, the other man
crawled under the Jeep to put new batteries into the
electronic tracking device. Reaching for the device that
was fitted to the underside of the Jeep's chassis, he had
to exert a fair bit of force to pull the magnetized base
off the chassis. Then he had to open the tracking device,
tip out the old batteries and slide in the new ones. In
the cramped space under the Jeep, and working in the
dark, it was fiddly.

Up in his hotel room Rawson had emerged from the shower,

dried himself and put on the money-belt. After dressing
in heavy-duty work-clothes and ankle-boots, he slipped
the knife in it's leather scabbard into his left sock,
where it was hidden by the leg of his long pants. The
Beretta pistol he'd acquired at Henk the gun-dealer's
place went into the waistband of his pants at the rear.
As it was now dark outside, he put the Polaroid
sunglasses in his shirt-pocket.

With the broad-brimmed hat on his head, the Englishman

did a final check to make sure that he hadn't left
anything in the hotel room. Placing the room-key on a
table near the door, where the hotel staff would find it
in the morning, he left the hotel room and allowed the
door to shut and lock. With his gear loaded into the
Jeep, there was no reason for him to delay, and he would
drive off into Egypt's Western Desert tonight.

Instead of taking the elevator down to the hotel's

underground carpark, Rawson used the stairs and because
he was quiet on his feet, the 'boffin' acting as Lookout
wasn't aware that he was approaching. But Rawson saw the
second man's legs sticking out from beneath the Jeep and
with reflexes sharpened by years of dangerous living, he
moved quickly and silently to stand behind a concrete
pillar. A minute later the man under the Jeep had
slithered out, and the two men walked away. Shadowing the
men, Rawson saw them get into an old Morris saloon parked
out on the street and then drive away.

Returning to the hired Jeep, Rawson crawled underneath

and soon found the black box, no bigger than a pack of
cigarettes, that was attached to the underside of the
chassis. Pulling the strongly-magnetized device off the
chassis, the Englishman emerged from beneath the Jeep and
examined the black box under one of the electric lights
that illuminated the carpark. In 1969, only Government
agents had access to devices like this, so Rawson knew
straight away what he was up against. He did, however,
have one advantage: he knew about the tracking device,
and his opponents weren't AWARE that he knew.

---oooOooo---

The British spy knew that if Egyptian Intelligence were

planting tracking devices on his vehicle, they would also
have people following him __ it was standard 'tradecraft'
for spies. And if they were going to all that trouble,
then they would also have people watching the Exit ramp
of the Golden Eagle Hotel's underground carpark. Because
of the system of one-way streets in this part of Cairo,
the carpark's Entrance and Exit ramps were on opposite
sides of the hotel, which gave Rawson an idea.

Leaving the hotel building on foot, he circled the

building, keeping to the shadows to avoid being seen, and
he saw the car with two 'watchers' in it, parked up a
side-street from where they'd be able to see anyone
leaving the underground carpark by the Exit ramp. But on
the other side of the hotel at the Entrance ramp, there
were no 'watchers'. Their tracking device told them that
his Jeep was currently in the hotel carpark, so they were
watching the Exit ramp for when he left.

As there was no-one watching the Entrance ramp, he drove

up it and exited the hotel that way, without being seen.
He had left the tracking device in the hotel carpark,
which should fool the opposition into thinking that the
Jeep was still there and that he was still in his hotel
room.

It was ten o'clock at night as the British spy headed

north-west out of Cairo, following the highway to Minuf,
then Kafr az Zayyat, and three hours after leaving Cairo
he reached the town of Rosetta on Egypt's Mediterranean
coast. Here he turned left onto the Coast Road and within
fifty minutes he was near the turn-off for the city of
Alexandria. But he stayed on the Coast Road, which took
him south-west towards the town of El Alamein, seventy
miles away.

It was just after three in the morning when he slowed

down, for the Coast Road ran through the town-center of
El Alamein. At an all-night Truck Stop on the edge of
town, he pulled in and parked beside one of the gasoline
pumps.

A teenage boy came out to operate the pump and in Arabic,

Rawson asked him to fill the Jeep's tank. The Jeep was
fitted with long-range fuel-tanks and they were half-
empty, so it took a while to fill them. Leaving the boy
to take care of it, Rawson opened the door on the back of
the jeep's giant plywood box, hauled out the four large
metal jerry-cans and took off their caps. Picking up two
of them, he carried them over to where the boy stood and
told him to fill both of them with gasoline. He took the
other two jerry-can to a tap on the Truck Stop's
forecourt, and began filling them with water.

While this was happening he reached under his clothing,

unzipped the money-belt and took out cash to the value of
one hundred Egyptian Pounds, which he put into the pocket
of his pants. Now an old man appeared, dressed in the
traditional long white robes and checked head-dress of an
Arab. He was no doubt curious about why it was taking so
long to fill the Jeep's fuel-tanks and the two jerry-
cans. He had a whispered conversation with the boy, and
to save any misunderstandings, the Englishman took some
cash out of his pocket and made sure the old man saw it.
The effect was immediate and the old Arab came smiling
towards Rawson.

'Greetings, Bey,' Rawson gave a small bow as he addressed

the old fellow in Arabic. 'The hospitality offered by
your House is a welcome relief to a weary traveler.' In
Arab culture, great formality and elaborate compliments
are a way to show that you understand you are in the
presence of your superiors, and will cause no offense to
them. 'Bey' is an ancient term of great respect in the
Middle East, which can be traced all the way back to the
Ottoman Empire.

The old man was startled, for he hadn't heard the term
'Bey' used by anyone since he was a boy. But he was
nonetheless pleased that this white infidel had at least
taken the time to learn Arabic, and obviously knew
something of Arab culture. 'You, your camels, your wives,
and your children are welcome here, always, ' with a
flourish of his hands, the old man gave a small bow.

'I have taken some of your water and will pay any price
that you ask, Bey,' Rawson indicated the two jerry-cans
that he'd filled with water. As the stuff of life in a
hot desert climate, water is given freely to a traveler,
but out of courtesy the traveler offers to pay for it.
Out of courtesy, the host refuses to accept payment.

'No, no, I will make no charge for the water,' the old
Arab smiled. 'For water is Allah's sweetest Blessing.
Take as much as you wish.'

'Allah is great, and truly merciful.' The Englishman

bowed deeply to the old man. 'Please tell me how much I
owe you for the gasoline.' He had a fifty-Pound Egyptian
banknote in his hand and the old Arab grinned and led him
to where the boy had finished filling the Jeep and the
two jerry-cans. The old man read how many gallons
registered on the fuel-pump then used a pencil to do a
calculation on a small pad that he carried.

'Fifty-five Pounds and seventy Piastres,' the old fellow

told him. In Egypt in 1969, this was a serious sum of
money. As he scrabbled in his pocket for the right
banknotes and presented the correct money to the old man,
the teenage boy stared at the money in awe.

Rawson put the caps on the two jerry-cans full of water

and lugged them across to the Jeep. The boy and the old
man brought one of the jerry-cans of gasoline over, and
Rawson went to get the other one. Towards the back of the
Jeep at the sides were metal racks designed to hold a
total of four jerry-cans, two on each side of the
vehicle. The Englishman put one jerry-can of gasoline,
and one of water, on each side of the Jeep, then he
closed the giant plywood box and locked it with the
padlock.

After thanking the old Arab man and the teenage boy, he
bid them farewell. As he climbed in behind the wheel of
the Jeep a truck turned off the Coast Road and pulled up
by one of the diesel pumps. The old Arab obviously knew
the truck-driver, and he went across to talk to him.
Rawson was about to start the Jeep when her heard the
driver saying that the Police had set up roadblocks on
the Coast Road just west of El Alamein.

The British spy walked casually over to where the men

were talking. 'Do they set up roadblocks often?'

'Around here they do it all the time,' The truck-driver

said. 'We're close to the Qattara Depression, you see,
which is a hundred miles of swamps, quicksand and huge
holes in the ground, and you can't drive through it. So
if the cops want to catch someone all they have to do is
put roadblocks in a few places and bang!' He brought his
hands together in a loud clap. 'The prey is trapped.'

'Isn't there any way around the roadblocks?' Rawson said.

'I have to be in Al Bawiti by tomorrow morning.' Al
Bawiti was a town 180 miles inland from El Alamein.

Finding a map and a flashlight in his truck, the truck-

driver spead the map out on the hood of the Jeep, and
illuminated it with his flashlight. 'If you go down the
Coast Road in the opposite direction, towards Alexandria,
after fifteen miles you'll see a sign on the right for
the Suleiman Track. It will take you all the way to Al
Bawiti.'

'Thank you,' the British secret-agent said with feeling.

'Your map is better than the one I have.'

The truck-driver folded up the map and handed to the

Englishman.

Rawson said: 'How much do want for it?'

The Arab truck-driver shook his head. 'Take it. I don't

really need it. You see, I've been driving on these roads
for so long, I have a very good map in here.' He smiled
and pointed a stubby brown finger to his own head.

'What can I say? Thank you once again.' Rawson took the
map, climbed into the Jeep, glanced at his wristwatch and
saw the time was 3.25 AM. He started the Jeep, waved to
the old man and the truck-driver, and turned onto the
Coast Road heading back towards Alexandria.

The truck-driver hurried into the brick building that

housed the Truck Stop's office and restaurant, and used
the phone to call a number in Siwa, a town in Egypt's
Western Desert, near the Qattara Depression. A man with a
harsh rasping voice answered and the truck-driver
identified himself and reported that the tactic of
throwing-up a roadblock on the Coast Road at El Alamein
had worked.

'The Englishman is now driving from El Alamein to Al

Bawiti on the Suleiman Track.'

'It was definitely him?' Omar Jabril asked.

'He was a white Englishman, driving a Jeep with Egyptian

plates 56-1138-10.'

The harsh voice grunted. 'He suspects nothing?'

'No.'

'Thank you, Chief Inspector.' In the Command-Post he'd

set up in Siwa, Omar Jabril hung up the phone and picked
up the radio. He contacted one of the four-person teams
he had in place in the Western Desert, and told them to
get to the town of Al Bawiti, thirty miles south-east of
the Qattara Depression, then drive down the Suleiman
Track. Jabril told them exactly what they had to do, then
signed-off.

They had been very lucky, Jabril told himself. The

thrice-damned Englishman had discovered the tracking
device and dumped it, then somehow got out of a hotel
carpark under surveillance, without being seen. Luckily
the 'followers' waiting near the Golden Eagle Hotel had
been buying food from a street-vendor, when Rawson's Jeep
had driven right past them. Without the electronic
tracking device to help them, they'd had to stay well
back so as not to alert their quarry, but at least they
were able to radio Jabril and tell him Rawson was heading
towards El Alamein.

And the Decree had been a big help. When the President of
Egypt learned about what lay behind yesterday's explosion
at the illegal gun-dealer's house, he'd issued a
Presidential Decree giving Omar Jabril unlimited powers
and ordering anyone and everyone to give assist Jabril in
any way they could. That Decree had got Omar Jabril
instant cooperation from the Police in El Alamein.

---oooOooo---

At the Truck Stop on the outskirts of El Alamein, the

truck-driver had left the office after using the
telephone. He'd taken off the soiled shirt and grubby
pants he was wearing, revealing a Police uniform
underneath with the shoulder-boards of a Chief Inspector.
'Thank you for calling me,' he said to the old Arab man.

'The Englishman seemed like such a nice young man,' the

old fellow said. 'But I take it he isn't?'

'He's as bad as they come,' the Chief Inspector said.

'The Mukhabarat are after him.' Mukhabarat is an Arabic
word meaning 'secret police' or 'spy agency'.

'What did he do?' the old man wanted to know.

'They wouldn't tell me,' the Chief Inspector said. 'But

whatever it was, it must have been bad.'

'Why do you say that?'

'The Decree the Mukhabarat showed me when they asked for

my help. It gave the Mukhabarat total authority to act in
any way they see fit, to requisition anything they need,
and it ordered the Army, Police and civilians to
cooperate fully. The Chief Inspector eyed the old man
intently. 'It was a Presidemtial Decree, signed by
President Nasser himself.'

'The President of Egypt?' the old man's jaw dropped.

The Chief Inspector nodded. 'I'd better take the truck

back to Ramzi. I think we have all been assisting in a
matter of National Security, but we'll probably never
know any of the details.' He climbed up into the truck,
started the engine and drove out of the Truck Stop.

---oooOooo---

Rawson had been driving for hours along the rough,

narrow, twisting Suleiman Track at a speed that was
almost suicidal, and by 8.00 AM he was still nowhere near
the town of Al Bawiti. He had, however, reached the edge
of the Qattara Depression, and he found himself in a
strange landscape where dramatic upthrusts of rock sat
beside unbelievably-deep sink-holes and ravines. In some
places giant boulders were strewn about. In other areas
long thin strips of dark-gray looked for all the world
like paved roads, but they were actually rock-formations.
It was dangerous to leave the road in this region, either
in a vehicle or on foot, because what looked like 'solid
ground' might be sand or soil sitting over a 400-foot
deep sink-hole. The weight of a car, or a person, could
be enough to make the top crust fall into the sink-hole.
And if you're driving or standing on it when that
happens, the sink-hole will swallow you whole.

The Suleiman Track skirted around the edge of a sunken

area that was an 'outlier' of the Qattara Depression. An
'outlier' was caused by the same geological instability
that had caused the enormous area of the Qattara
Depression to sink hundreds of feet below sea-level. An
outlier was the same sort thing, but on a smaller scale.
The Track, which hadn't been very wide to begin with, now
got even narrower. And the surface of the Track was
riddled with pot-hole deep enough to break an axle, so
the British secret-agent had to slow down, even though he
would have preferred not to.
Then the Suleiman Track, which had been skirting the
sunken area, dropped down into it and before long he was
driving with a wall of solid rock to his left, and a
precipitous 300-foot drop to his right. As he came around
a bend in the Track he glimpsed a steep side-track on the
left heading upwards, then he saw his path was blocked up
ahead by a stationary truck.

The Englishman jumped on the brakes and as the Jeep

skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust he saw a black girl
in long Muslim robes coming towards him. Her beautiful
brown face was visible and she looked eighteen or
nineteen years old. She was a big girl, perhaps six feet
tall, and while the long Muslim robes covered her from
head to toe, they couldn't hide her striking figure, or
the sleek lithe panther-like way that she moved.

'Sorry, man,' she spoke English with an American accent.

'The Egyptian cops have a roadblock up ahead and you
don't wanna go there. They're pulling people out of their
cars and beating the crap out of them.'

'What's going on?' Rawson asked.

'My guess would be that they're looking for an escaped

criminal.' Suddenly the black girl gave him a ravishing
smile. 'Say, are you English?'

Rawson nodded.

'I like English guys.' She stood by the driver's-door of

the Jeep smiling at him and he definitely felt like he
was in with a chance here. 'Listen, my University has
been doing research out here for a couple of years, so I
know my way around. And I know a place we can go where
the Egyptian cops won't go.'

'Where's that?'

'Back that way.' She gestured in the direction that

Rawson had just come from. 'There's a side-track that
leads up to the top of that mountain over there.' She
pointed to a stony mountain three or four miles away.
'It's called Mount Ra and most Egyptians, including the
cops, won't go near it because they think the Sun-God Ra
sometimes visits the place. If Ra catches anyonr there,
legends say that the humans will be devoured by the Sun.'
The beautiful black girl giggled.
'You're saying that Egyptians won't go there because of a
legend?' Rawson asked incredulously.

'I know, it's crazy,' she laughed. 'But that's people for
you. Greeks can be pretty weird about Mount Olympus. the
funny thing is, Mount Ra REALLY IS a dangerous place, so
it's like the Egyptians made up the legend to remind
themselves not to go there.'

'What's dangerous about Mount Ra?'

The black girl smiled. 'It's an outlying pocket of the

Crustal Deformation that affects the Qattara Depression.
Billions of years ago the Earth's Crust in this whole
area was deformed and weakened by events of unimaginable
power. This led to Qattara sinking hundred of feet below
sea-level, that's why the salt-lakes and marshes are
there: the northern end of the Qattara Depression is only
thirty miles from the sea at El Alamein, so salt-water
from the sea finds it's way in, creating the salt-lakes
and marshes.'

'And the quicksand areas?'

'They're more complicated.' She paused for a moment. 'On

Mount Ra there are sink-holes hundreds of feet deep, just
like in the Qattara Depression. So if you don't know your
way around up there, you can end up dead real quick.'

'So the Egyptian legends that keep people away from Mount
Ra actually serve a useful purpose.' Rawson smiled at the
black girl. 'And you know what you're doing up there, so
you won't let me fall into a 400-foot sink-hole.'

'That's right.' She eyed the Englishman. 'Your life will

be in my hands. The University have up there. Tents and
sleeping bags. Enough food and water for us to stay there
for months if we wanted to.'

'Are any University people up there at the moment?'

'No,' the black girl said, 'the researchers pull out at

the beginning of the Hot Season in April and they won't
go back until October, when things start to cool down.
Listen, I need to move my truck off the road, then I
could jump in your Jeep and guide you up to Mount Ra'

'Okay,' Rawson nodded. 'Do you need any help with the
truck?'
'Not really, man,' she smiled. 'If you reverse back fifty
yards to the Mount Ra Track, I'll see you there in five.'
The Englishman started reversing the Jeep, and the black
girl walked up to where she'd left the International
Scout truck blocking the Suleiman Track. Starting the
engine, she drove to where the Mount Ra Track joined the
Suleiman Track. The British secret-agent was sitting
there in his Jeep waitiing for her and she drove past him
and parked the International Scout off the Track, in a
small open area that she knew didn't have any sink-holes
in it. She flicked a 'kill switch' and locked the Diff,
which would make it very difficult for anyone to steal
the truck.

When she finished she turned to find the Englishman

waiting in his Jeep.

'Nice truck,' he said, as the black girl slipped into the

Jeep beside him.

'It belongs to the University,' she said, 'but Professor

Jenkins lets me use it when I want.'

'What are you studying at University?'

'Geology.'

Rawson went quiet for a few moments. His 'cover' on this

mission was that he was a Geologist, and he'd been taught
enough about the subject to fool the average person. But
he wouldn't be able to fool this girl. She was studying
Geology at University.

'Slip her into four-wheel-drive,' the black girl said.

'This Track starts to get steep once we go around this
bend.'

He did as she said, and soon the gradient was very steep
indeed.

'Great view,' she said. Rawson had been so busy

concentrating on his driving, he hadn't noticed. He
stopped the Jeep and they sat there for a moment,
admiring the spectacular view over the valley.

'How long will it take to get to Mount Ra?' he asked.

'Forty minutes,' she replied. 'It's not far.'

After a while the Englishman continued driving cautiously

up the steep Mount Ra Track, with the Jeep in four-wheel
drive. With the black girl navigating, forty minutes
later they went up a REALLY steep section, then they came
out onto a flat area.

'Is this it?' Rawson asked.

The girl nodded. 'This is Mount Ra. If you see the

Egyptian Sun-God up here, prepare to be devoured by the
Sun.'

The top of Mount Ra was a vast flat area covered in an

enormous flat slab of granite, and there were gigantic
boulders strewn about all over it, so it was like a
gigantic maze.

'It's like the Gods were playing marbles up here,' Rawson

commented.

The beautiful black girl laughed. 'Maybe Zeus played

marbles with Ra.'

'And Amaterasu kept score.'

'Who's Amaterasu?'

'Japanese Goddess of the Sun,' the Englishman told her.

'The Egyptians had a male Sun-God,' the black girl

observed, 'and the Japanese had a female Sun-God.'

'Very even-handed,' he said. 'Jobs for the boys and jobs

for the girls.'

She gave a crazy laugh, then told him where to drive in

this jumble of giant boulders. After a few minutes they
reached an open area that had two large tents sitting in
it. One tent was green, the other gray. Both had EGYPTIAN
ARMY stencilled on them.

'Why would a University use Army tents?' Rawson asked.

'They got them cheap.' The girl got out of the Jeep.
'Come on. I'll make you a cup of tea.' And she led the
white man into the gray tent.

Inside, the tent was divided into separate rooms and at

one end two armchairs faced each other over a wooden
crate that served as a table. Rawson was sitting in one
of the armchairs and the black girl brought him a mug of
tea, which she set down in front of him on the wooden
crate. 'I'm Olivia, by the way.' She stuck out her small
brown hand.

'I'm Charles.' As he shook her hand he was astonished by

the strength of her grip, and shocked by the tough
callused feel of her hand. The outer-edge, or 'blade', of
her brown hand had the sort of calluses on it that a
Karate-expert would get from chopping planks in half with
her bare hands. At six feet tall she was a big girl,
taller than Rawson, and he realized that if she did
Karate she would be lethal.

Alarm-bells started to go off inside his mind, but then

Olivia had looked down and swatted something on the
skirts of her long Muslim robes. 'An insect just bit me
on the leg. It feels itchy.'

She lifted up the skirts of her Muslim robes and extended

a long slim brown leg so that she could examine it. The
Englishman was also checking it out and he noticed that
while her brown legs were muscular at the tops of her
thighs, they tapered down beautifully through slim knees
and slimmer calves, to the slimmest of ankles. He had
probably never seen better legs on a woman, black or
white, in his entire life.

'I'm so hot,' the black girl said. 'I have to take some
things off. Standing in front of where the Englishman was
sitting, she pulled her arms up the sleeve of her Muslim
robes and began wriggling around inside the robes as
Rawson watched. After a while something white appeared
down around her ankles and Olivia stepped out of them,
picked them up and handed them to Rawson. Her panties.
After more wriggling around under the robes, something
white fell to the floor and when she picked it up and
handed it to Rawson, he saw it was her bra.

'38 J Cup?' As he read the label on the bra, the man's

mind churned. With a look of astonishment, he said: 'I
didn't know they made them that big.'

As she stood in front of him, Olivia gave a crazy laugh.

She'd stuck her arms back into the sleeves of her Muslim
robes and when her slim brown hands reappeared, they
began to work their way down the front of the robes,
untying the fastenings that kept the robes closed. When
she untied the last fastening the robes fell open all
down the front and Rawson saw that beneath the Muslim
robes she was naked. As he realized that they really DID
make them that big, his balls grew tense, then the
sitting man grew an erection that pushed up his pants
like a tent.

With a dancer's motion Olivia had slipped off the Muslim

robes and the man saw that her naked brown body was
generally slim, however she was had the greatest boobs
and butt that he'd ever seen in his life. The nineteen
year-old black girl had smiled and come to sit on his
knee. Then her hands found him and at that point any
misgivings that Rawson had, any fears the black girl did
Karate, and all of his Secret Service spy skills and
thirty-one years of experience were swept away.

Chapter 6

'I always do my Yoga exercises at this time,' she told

him. 'You can watch if you like.'

'Sure,' Rawson grinned. He'd heard about Yoga __ a system

of exercises devised in Ancient India __ which were
designed to relax a person into a state where the Soul,
Mind and Body are one, and as a result all three become
stronger and more flexible.

Watching the white man closely, Olivia's brown hands

began to work their way down the front of her long Muslim
robes, untying the bindings that kept them closed. With a
dancer's motion she shrugged off the robes, and as they
fell down to the ground with a soft 'plop' Rawson saw
that underneath she wore a white bra and panties. Her
tall coffee-brown body was quite sensational and above a
hard flat brown stomach her brown breasts were huge and
firm in the little white bra. Below a tiny nipped-in
waist her hips were broad and shapely, while her long
brown legs were slim and tapered to perfection. The
change from long Muslim robes to this was quite stunning
and the Englishman appeared to be totally dumbfounded as
he sat there gawking at her.

'I usually do my Yoga in the nude,' she smiled, 'but I

don't want you to have a heart-attack. So I'll keep my
panties and bra on for the moment.'

After placing an exercise mat on the floor of the kitchen

she sat down on it, facing towards the white man, and
drew her knees up in front of her.

As Rawson watched, the young black woman shifted her

weight onto her left hip, raised her right leg high up
into the air and then drew it back until the knee slipped
behind her shoulder and the thigh was behind her back.
Moving her weight onto her right hip, she repeated this
with her other leg then allowed her body to relax
backwards, so that her back came to rest on her thighs
and her ankles were behind her ears. Being so flexible
must make her a great fuck, the British spy thought, but
when he tried to imagine HOW GREAT, he had to give up.
However great he thought she would be, something told him
that she'd be even greater.

Eyes closed, Olivia's brown hands came together above her

breasts as if in prayer or meditation and as she remained
like that for a minute, her beautiful brown face became
totally relaxed. Suddenly, in one fluid and apparently
effortless movement, she did a backward-roll that brought
her gorgeous brown body into a kneeling position, facing
towards the Englishman. She rearranged her long slender
brown legs so that she sat cross-legged, then brought her
hands together over her breasts and reclined back into
another minute of prayer or meditation.

Her Yoga exercises lasted for forty-eight minutes and

Rawson couldn't believe the things that her body could
do, even though it was happening right in front of his
eyes. Olivia's tall sexy brown body was as flexible as if
it was made out of rubber and several times when she tied
herself into mind-boggling knots that defied Rawson's
comprehension, he had to walk around her, viewing her
contorted body from different angles to work out where
one part of her ended and another part began.

Olivia's display of suppleness had a singular effect on

the white man watching it: it made him grow stiff. To
begin with his penis went stiff, but the stiffness soon
spread throughout his entire body, and then it started to
affect his mind. By the end of the black girl's forty-
eight minute Yoga routine, Rawson's thoughts were as
rigid and unyielding as a block of concrete, and he was
in some kind of a Trance. He stood rooted to the spot,
staring at the black girl with a mixture of awe, lust,
and stunned disbelief.

She had completed her Yoga exercises standing on her feet

and bent over backwards with her head between her thighs,
her face smiling up at Rawson from just below her
panties. As she straightened up she saw the mesmerized
look on the white man's face, the way his pants were
inflated by his stiff penis, and she gave that crazy
laugh of hers.

Rawson was aware of her undressing him, then she led him
into her bedroom and got him to lie down naked on the
bed, with his erection standing up in the air as he
stared up at the young black woman. From her tall slim
brown body her breasts had swelled-out immensely when she
took off her bra, and as she slipped off her panties the
man's rigid penis began to pulsate with desire. Olivia
had moved to kneel astride the white man's thighs facing
toward him and as she leaned down over him her huge brown
breasts had swung down into his face, engulfing him in
the blackness of her cleavage. Then her hard brown hands
had begun to manipulate his naked body in ways that he'd
never experienced before, and any doubts that Rawson had
about the young black woman named Olivia, any fears she
did Karate, and all of his spy training and thirty-one
years of experience were wiped out.

---oooOooo---

Charles Rawson made a lot of noise that night, but as he

was in the middle of the desert there was no-one around
to hear it, except for the tall black girl who was with
him.

Rawson sounded like a distressed animal, but the noises

he made were typical of man who is having sex with a
woman who is using Tantric techniques on him.
Interestingly, they were the same noises that a man makes
when he is being tortured in a particular way, but
whatever was being done to Rawson onlt he knew, and the
black girl who was doing it.

To begin with he'd writhed and screamed out loud, but

after an hour of it he was just grunting and groaning.
After two hours he'd gone totally insane and started
shouting at the top of his voice. After three hours he
was making half-strangled croaking sounds and white foam
was coming out of his mouth.

After four hours of it his naked body was arching back

and his mouth was wide open as if he was screaming, yet
no sound was coming out. He was still foaming at the
mouth, and his eyes had rolled up until only the whites
were visible.

The Englishman was now in some kind of a Trance, and

whether torture or Tantric love-making had brought him
here made no difference, because at this point the man
started talking. It was something he had no control over,
for he no longer had control over anything. Charles Halan
Rawson was a member of the British Secret Service, so he
knew a lot of secrets, and when he 'broke' they all came
out.
Olivia had been carrying a small tape-recorder in her
shoulder-bag and was sitting on a rock beside where
Rawson lay, picking up everything he said. She let him
rant and rave, saying whatever he wanted to say, telling
her about Top Secret stuff one moment and his childhood
nightmares the next. He talked for six hours and she'd
changed the micro-cassette tapes three times, but that
was okay. She had another forty blank micro-cassettes in
her shoulder-bag. It was only when the deranged white man
stopped talking that she began asking him questions.

Chapter 2

Monday, August 11, 1969.

The Benghazi Clarion newspaper carried the following

single-paragraph story on page 29:

TOURIST DIES IN CAR ACCIDENT

The body of British tourist Charles Rawson, aged 52, of

London, has been found in the wreckage of a Jeep at the
bottom of a 300-foot deep ravine in Egypt's Qattara
Depression. Mr Rawson went missing in May, after telling
people at his Cairo hotel he would be visiting the area
to examine rock-formations. Mr Rawson was a Geologist by
profession. His remains were found by a Bedouin tribesman
six weeks ago, but initially could not be identified.
Dental-records from London have now proved the body to be
that of Mr Rawson. The Egyptian National Police have
warned that the Qattara Depression can be very dangerous,
as quicksand, sink-holes, crocodiles and snakes are
common. Mr Rawson is the fourth person to die in the
Qattara Depression this year.

---oooOooo---
At the same time Jabril had briefed Olivia about her next
mission, which was to infiltrate the Naval and Military
Club in central Cairo, posing as a waitress. 'Start with
the Chief Steward of the Club, Mr Rahmani. According to
my sources, Rahmani knows about everything that goes on
at the Club, and a great deal about the private lives of
the rich and powerful men who are Club Members. Your job
is to find out what Rahmani knows.'

In other words, the black girl thought, I seduce Rahmani

and pump him for information. Amazing how talkative some
men become after sex. She'd nodded to indicate that she
understood, and Jabril had handed her a parcel. 'Your
waitress uniform.'

'How do you know what size I am?' she'd asked.

'I am an Egyptian Intelligence Officer,' Jabril had told

her. 'I can find out anything about anyone.' The nineteen
year-old black girl had looked at him, thinking for the
hundredth time what a handsome devil he was.

Once the briefing was over she'd gone to the Cairo hotel
room where she was living at the moment, tried on the
waitress-uniform and found it was a perfect fit. Jabril
must have got in here and checked the labels on my
clothes in the wardrobe, she thought.

Olivia read the Cairo Gazette story again as she sat in

the Staff Room of the Naval and Military Club in central
Cairo, where she was on her afternoon tea-break. She'd
been working here as a waitress for ten days and now she
would make her move on the Chief Steward of the Club, Mr
Rahmani. When Olivia's afternoon tea-break ended she set
down the newspaper, left the Staff Room and made her way
to the Bar of the Naval and Military Club. Being a Friday
and the most important day of prayer for Muslims, many of
the Club's Egyptian Members didn't want to drink alcohol
today, so they stayed away from the Club. As a result the
Bar was empty and there was no waitressing for Olivia and
the other girls to do.

Having observed Chief Steward Rahmani and his secretary

over the past ten days, she knew the secretary went home
early on Fridays, so Rahmani would be alone in his office
up on the Third Floor. This had given Olivia an idea.

Slipping out of the empty Bar, she went to her locker in

the Staff Room and grabbed her handbag, then climbed the
stairs up to the Third Floor. Two days ago she'd been
sent up to Mr Rahmani's office to clean it, so she knew
where it was and the internal layout. As boss of the
Naval and Military Club, Chief Steward Rahmani's 'office'
was actually a spacious and well-appointed suite of rooms
which included a meeting-room, a storeroom, a kitchen, an
ensuite bathroom/toilet, and a bedroom where Rahmani
slept when he stayed at the office overnight to catch up
on paperwork. Leaving the stairs at the Third Floor, she
went into the Ladies bathroom, entered a cubicle and left
her handbag sitting on the cover over the toilet-seat,
then used her pocketknife to lock the cubicle from the
outside. Folding up the pocketknife and putting it in her
skirt-pocket, she moved down the corridor and knocked on
Mr Rahmani's door.

As his secretary had already left for the day the Chief
Steward answered her knock himself, and he found the new
black waitress Olivia standing there with her skirt drawn
up to the top of her thigh, as she examined her stocking.
This allowed him to see all of her long slender brown
leg, which in the white stocking and suspender-belts
looked absolutely fantastic. In the waitress uniform, so
did the rest of her tall lovely brown body.

Olivia glanced up at him and smiled. 'I'm sorry to

disturb you, Mr Rahmani, but it's very quiet in the Bar
today, and I was wondering if I could get you a cup of
coffee or something?'

'That's very thoughtful of you, my dear,' Rahmani said,

as he eyed her leg. 'Are you having trouble with your
stocking?'

'Yes.'

'Well, come in,' He stood back from the door and as

Olivia stepped through he indicated a desk in the outer-
office. 'My secretary has left for the day, so you can
sit in her chair and sort out your stocking. Then you can
use the kitchen here to make me a cup of coffee. Make one
for yourself as well. I'd like to have a talk with you.
Nothing serious, you understand? Just a friendly chat.'

The coffee-percolator in the kitchenette attached to

Rahmani's office was already bubbling-away, and it was
only a few minutes later when Olivia brought in a tray
with the coffee-things on it. As she set the tray down on
his large mahogany desk, Rahmani saw the top two buttons
of her white blouse were open, giving him an eyeful of
the vast cleavage between her large brown breasts. He
could see she was bra-less and he was dumbfounded that
such a 'big' girl could get away without wearing a bra.
The muscle-tone of her body must be very taut and firm.

'Fix your stocking, then?' he asked, as he sipped his

coffee. Rahmani was a tall and distinguished-looking man
aged in his sixties, with gray hair, and although he was
married, he'd had affairs with quite a few waitresses who
worked at the Naval and Military Club.

Olivia shook her head, extended a leg towards him and

slid up her skirt to show him that she'd taken off her
stockings. 'See the bruise where the clip was digging
into me?' Reaching for Rahmani's hand, she guided it to
her brown thigh. It was long sleek and rounded, and as he
began stroking it she saw him grow an erection that
pushed-up the fork of his trousers like a tent.

She caressed his ear and as his testicles tightened-up

Rahmani suddenly became aware of how hot and heavy they
were: weighed-down by the billions of sperm that lived
inside them. Olivia stroked his neck and desire throbbed
in his stiff penis. Moving to stand pressed up against
the seated man, she drew Rahmani's face into her lap. He
got out of the chair, knelt at her feet, and pulled her
panties down. Using his fingers to open up her vulva, he
inserted one finger into her vagina, then two, then his
entire hand except for the thumb. The muscles inside her
suddenly tightened-up around his hand and when he tried
to withdraw it, he wasn't able to. He tried again, harder
this time, but his hand seemed to be stuck in there.

'I ran away from home when I was fourteen,' Olivia told
him, 'and I was taken in by an old lady who's a Healer,
Herbalist, Whore and Witch. She taught me a special kind
of Yoga, got me to exercise my vagina on a daily basis.
What I can do with it will boggle your mind.' Which is
half-true, Olivia thought to herself. She had an educated
pussy all right, but not thanks to some mad old Witch.
She'd been taught the sex-stuff by an Indian woman who
was an instructor at the KGB spy-training camp which the
Russians had set up in the desert outside Cairo.

But the bullshit about the Witch always impressed guys,

and Rahmani was now staring at her in awe. His hand was
still stuck inside her cunt and he was wondering if he'd
ever get it back, when the black girl cried out and had
an orgasm. Her vaginal muscles relaxed and when he slid
his hand out it was covered in her vaginal juices. The
tinned-sardine smell of them drove him crazy and when he
licked her clitoris she sighed with delight. When he
nibbled it gently with his teeth, she yelped and came all
over his face. Feeling totally insane, Rahmani stuck his
rigid tongue into her vagina and as he began licking her
out she'd climaxed again, and again, and again. Moving to
sit on his shoulders with her black pussy in his face,
she'd clasped her thighs around his neck and had a series
of orgasms that made her shriek and left her beautiful
brown body trembling all over.

Chief Steward Rahmani lifted her down from his shoulders

and led her into the bedroom attached to his office,
where he had a bed for those occasions when he slept
overnight in the office. They got undressed and made love
on the bed for the rest of that Friday afternoon. By
early-evening Rahmani was asleep and the Third Floor
corridor was quiet, so Olivia pulled on her blouse, skirt
and shoes and went down the corridor to the Ladies
bathroom. After opening the toilet-cubicle with her
pocketknife, she retrieved her handbag from where she'd
left it sitting on the toilet-seat cover.

Returning to Rahmani's office she locked the outside

door, turned-off the lights in the outer-office and went
to the bedroom where he slept naked on the bed. Her
handbag had been designed by the KGB for female spies
and an invisible 'pin-hole' camera at one end could film
people without their knowledge, while a mini tape-
recorder captured the sound. After activating both these
devices, she placed the handbag on a shelf overlooking
the bed. Rahmani's job as Chief Steward of the
prestigious Naval and Military Club in central Cairo put
him in daily contact with people at the very top of
Egyptian society, and Egyptian Intelligence wanted some
compromising pictures of Rahmani with Olivia, in case
they needed 'leverage' over him in the future. But Olivia
was allowed to conceal her identity, which she did by
putting-on wraparound sunglasses.

Rahmani was aged in his sixties and as he'd come four

times in the last few hours he didn't want to wake up,
but eventually he did, and he found himself lying on his
back on the bed with the black girl lying on her side and
stretched-out beside him. She was wearing sunglasses,
which he thought was a bit odd, for apart from that she
was naked. He reached up to cup one of her large brown
breasts and despite his earlier exertions, he grew a
hard-on.

Olivia moved to lie on top of him with her brown feet in

his face. He looked up her long slim brown legs to the
black bush of her pussy, past the flare of her hips and
the flat brown belly with the immense tits above it, to
see her pretty brown face smiling at him from near his
feet. Through the bedroom's open window a bird could be
heard singing and from further away another bird sang
back to it. There was a rumble of thunder in the distance
and a smell of rain on the air.

She'd been licking his erection and when she took his
testicles into her mouth and sucked on them, Rahmani
cried out. Inside her mouth his balls quickly heated up
and the man groaned and writhed around helplessly on the
bed. Releasing his balls, Olivia gave a crazy little
laugh then shifted around so she could kiss him on the
mouth. Outside, the thunder was drawing closer and the
birds flew off to find shelter. On the bed Rahmani and
the beautiful black girl were exciting each other with
strokes and caresses and then Olivia grabbed his stiff
penis and inserted it into her vagina. Outside, the
thunderstorm was coming closer, and there was a crash as
a bolt of lightning landed somewhere in the distance.

Inside the black girl, Rahmani was moving deliberately

and slowly, for he was not used to being on the bottom,
and not used to the extreme angle at which her pussy was
taking his cock. Above him, Olivia's pretty brown face
was smiling and the white man looked down and saw her big
rounded brown butt moving about as her soft moist vulva
swallowed his stiff penis snd then slid back, almost
letting him go, only to engulf him again. There was a
huge crash as lightning struck nearby and as the girl
pulled rhythmically away at his erection she seemed to be
able to draw more of him inside her with each stroke. Her
brown face had stopped smiling now and she looked very
determined, with her jaw set and her eyes closed, as she
focussed on the man, his hard cock and her need to fuck
him to the best of her ability.

It was serious business and she was taking huge lengths

of him up her vagina now, with the great gulping lips of
her vulva moving at that acute angle which Rahmani found
so unfamiliar yet so arousing. The black girl's intensity
and singleminded determination left the man beneath her
feeling overwhelmed, yet incredibly excited. Outside,
lightning flickered. The dank smell of rain hung heavy in
the warm tropical air and the ground shook as a
thunderbolt landed close by. On the bed Rahmani felt his
climax approaching and he grunted and gasped and fought
against it, wanting to prolong the pleasure of screwing
this gorgeous black girl.

As Olivia leaned over him her huge brown breasts swung

into his face, making him lose control, and as the hot
Seed came shooting out of his long rigid penis Rahmani
yelled out loud and fainted with the exhilaration of it.
At that moment the thunderstorm broke and torrential rain
began to hammer down against the bedroom-window.

Olivia got off him, peeled-back one of his eyelids and

judged he would be 'out' for many hours. After closing
the bedroom window she picking up his trousers, found his
wallet and placed his Credit Cards, Drivers License and
Membership Cards on the floor, and took a photo of them
with the camera from her shoulder-bag. tThen she put
everything back exactly as she'd found it. She checked
how much money he had in his wallet (heaps) and noted the
amount in a diary she carried, before putting all the
money back in his wallet and returning the wallet to the
trouser-pocket that she'd taken it from.

Taking his keys from another trouser-pocket, she started

looking through the desk-drawers and filing-cabinets in
his office, using his keys to open any that were locked,
but making sure to lock them after she'd finished. When
she found something interesting, she photographed it and
made a diary-note. Set into the floor in a corner of the
office and hidden under the carpet, was a safe with a
combination-lock on it. She noted what type of safe it
was in her diary. Later, she would write a report for
Captain Omar Jabril stating what she'd discovered about
Chief Steward Rahmani, the Naval and Military Club, and
some of the rich and powerful men who were Members of it.

One name that came up was General Osman Salah, General of

Egyptian Intelligence. Salah was Omar Jabril's boss, and
Jabril would read Olivia's report with interest.

Chapter 5

It was seven o'clock that night when Chief Steward

Rahmani woke up and, finding he was alone on the bed, he
thought Olivia must have left. He couldn't face his wife
tonight, not after fucking the black girl, and he phoned
his wife and said work-pressures meant he would have to
sleep at the office tonight. As he hung up the phone he
heard the shower being turned on and walked naked to the
door of the bathroom. Opening the door, he called: 'Glad
to see you're still here.'

Olivia called to him from the shower. 'I wanted to wash

my hair, but you don't have any shampoo.'

'On the shelf inside the shower,' he told her.

'No. It's not here,' Olivia replied.

Rahmani frowned. The shampoo had been there the other

day. He'd used it himself. He stepped naked into the
bathroom and as he did so, the shower-curtains slid open
and he saw the tall black girl standing there watching
him. She was hot, wet and naked under the hot water, and
Rahmani gawked at her beautiful brown body as if it was
the first time he'd seen it.

'I like the look of that,' she eyed his hardening penis,
'you'd better come in here and have a shower.'

When he reached the shower-curtains, he saw the bottle of

shampoo on the shelf behind Olivia's shoulder. 'The
shampoo is right there,' he grinned.

'Yes, I know,' she giggled. As Rahmani stepped naked into

the shower, she reached for his erect penis.

---oooOooo---

Having sex in the shower had really taken it out of

Rahmani and afterwards he'd toweled-off, walked into the
office, sat naked behind his desk and fallen asleep.

He woke, with no idea how long he'd been asleep, and

found he was naked and tied to his office-chair. Using
strong but thin nylon rope she carried in her handbag,
the girl had tied his wrists to the arms of the chair and
his ankles to the chair's feet. From the professional way
that she'd tied the knots, she obviously knew what she
was about and there was no chance of him breaking free.

'There you are,' Olivia chuckled as she walked into the

office. She was naked and her large brown tits bounced
and jiggled around as she moved.

'And where else would I be?' Rahmani glared at her.

'Exactly.' She sat on his knee and his penis grew stiff
in her hand, as her other hand played with his balls.
Growling with pleasure despite, or perhaps because of,
his humiliation at being tied-up, one of Rahmani's wrists
strained so hard against the nylon rope that it cut into
his skin and drew blood. Still sitting on his knee,
Olivia bent down and licked up the blood before it could
drip onto the office carpet.

'As I'm in bare feet,' she told him, 'I noticed a slight
depression in the carpet in the corner of your office,
and when I lifted the carpet I found a safe under there.'

'So what?' Rahmani said, 'lots of people have a safe in

their office.'

'But safes are used to store either money or secrets,'

she said. 'You are Chief Steward of the Naval and
Military Club. Why would you spend all that money on a
safe? And why have it hidden under the carpet?'

'I have my reasons.'

'I want to know what they are.'

'Damn you!' He strained against the ropes again, opening

the cut on his wrist and as it started bleeding again
Olivia bent down and licked it up once more.

'Do you have sticking-plasters around here?' she asked.

'In the bathroom. The cabinet above the sink,' he said.

She took seven sticking plasters and used one on the cut
on his wrist. She put the other six on the desk next to
where Rahmani was tied-up. Going back into the bathroom,
she found a clean facecloth and a small bowl which she
filled with cold water. Dropping the facecloth into the
bowl of water, she took it into the office and set it
down on the desk beside the sticking-plasters.

'What are you doing?'

'Tell me what's in the safe,' the naked black girl said.

She was looking for some things in her handbag, found
them and brought them over to where Rahmani sat tied-up.
Two small glass bottles, one containing white cream, the
other green cream. Rahmani eyed them with trepidation.

'What is that?' he demanded.

'Last chance, Abdullah. Tell me what's in the safe.' She
sat down on his knee, unscrewed the lid of one bottle and
dipped her slim brown fingers into the white cream.

He refused to tell her so she smeared the heat-rub cream

all over his balls. Nothing happened for a moment, but
then his balls began to grow hot. She massaged-in more of
the cream and his balls got hotter, and hotter, and
hotter. The man's entire body grew red and hot as he
writhed helplessly on the chair that he was tied to, and
when he started crying out Olivia took the cloth from the
bowl of water and used it to sponge his balls.

The relief from the heat was instant, but only temporary,
and soon he was writhing and yelling again. She let him
burn for a while this time, and after a while he was red
and hot all over, as if his entire body was blushing.

'I'll tell you!' he screamed. She applied the wet cloth,

giving him relief, and as he told her what was in the
safe she continued sponging his balls with the cloth.
From time to time she dipped the cloth into the bowl of
water before re-applying it, and in those few seconds
when the wet cloth was withdrawn, Rahmani could feel the
heat begin to build up in his balls again. Then the cold
wet cloth was applied and he groaned out loud with the
relief that it brought.

'Tell me the combination of the safe,' the black girl

said, as she continued to sponge his balls.

'Okay, I will. Are you going to rob me?' Chief Steward

Rahmani asked her.

Olivia shook her head. 'With all that money in your

wallet, if I was going to rob you I would have done it
already.'

'You went through my wallet?' Rahmani stared at her.

'Not to steal. Not to do you any harm.' She was still

sponging his balls, keeping the fire of the heat-rub
cream at bay. 'When I fuck a man, I like to know all
about him. What is in his wallet, and not in it, can
reveal a great deal about a man.'

'Yes, I can see that,' Rahmani said. 'How much money is

in there will tell you something. Then there are the
Credit Cards, the membership cards, Drivers License, Gun
License, bills, invoices.'
'Pictures of your family,' she smiled at him. 'You all
love each other very much.' Quite deliberately, she had
not mentioned his wife, but Rahmani sensed that Olivia
knew he loved his wife. And she was fine with that. She
was still sponging his balls with the wet cloth.

'You are a remarkable young woman,' Rahmani told her. 'I

will tell you the combination of my safe, not because I'm
afraid of what you will do to me, but because I think
this whole thing was set-up. The people who could arrange
this must be very powerful, and they must have a good
reason to go to all this trouble.'

He suspects I'm a spy. Olivia smiled at him. 'There is a

game we can play. Say what you think and if you're wrong,
I will tell you that you're wrong. But if you're right,
then in the interests of Egyptian National Security, I
will remain silent.'

Rahmani: 'You are a spy for the Egyptian Government.'

Olivia looked at him and said nothing, which meant 'yes'.

Rahmani: 'You're on a mission and I mean nothing to you.'

Olivia: 'No, Abdullah, you're wrong. You are a fine man

and I care for you a great deal.'

Rahmani: 'The authorities think one of the Members of the

Naval and Military Club is a traitor to Egypt.'

Olivia remained silent, thus confirming what he'd said.

Rahmani: 'If it's Fadil Abaawai you're worried about,

then you should be. I've suspected that bastard is a
traitor for decades, but I have no concrete evidence
whether he is, or isn't.'

The black girl leaned over and kissed him passionately on

the mouth. 'You really are a clever boy.'

Rahmani laughed. 'I'm sixty-three years old. How old are

you?'

'Nineteen,' Olivia told him. 'But I've been around. And

when you make love to me it's as if the age-difference
doesn't exist.'

'Yes, that's how it is for me as well. When your mission

here is over, will we still be able to see each other?'
'Oh, I'd like that very much.' She gave him a ravishing
smile.

'I'm glad to hear that. The combination for the safe is:
5-1-2 Left, 2-5-6 Right, 1-2-8 Left, 0-6-4 Right.'

'Thank you Abdullah.' She wrote the number in her diary,

then intied the ropes that bound him to the chair. She
was no longer sponging his balls, but the effects of the
heat-rub cream had largely worn-off. Instead of his balls
growing unbearably-hot, there was now a curious but
pleasurable 'buzzing' sensation in them.

'Aren't you going to try the combination on the safe, to

make sure I'm telling the truth?' Rahmani asked her.

'No. I trust you Abdullah. You're going to enjoy this.'

She opened her second little glass bottle, dipped her
fingers in and smeared some of the green cream onto
Rahmani's penis, which grew stiff and hard. Sitting down
on his knees facing towards him, she inserted his stiff
penis into her vagina and began moving on him. There was
menthol in the cream on his penis and the feeling of cold
hardness while inside her warmth, and the 'buzzing' in
his balls, drove Rahmani absolutely wild. Naked and with
an erection, he was between Olivia's long brown legs all
night, banging her like there was no tomorrow.

Chapter 6

Using the 'Enthrallment' techniques she'd been taught by

the KGB, Olivia got took Rahmani to the very brink of his
orgasm, then kept him there without letting him come.
Every time he was about to climax, she touched his body
in a certain way, between his urethra and anus, and his
orgasm simply vanished. Yet he remained erect and
sexually aroused.

The first time it happened he'd sat there looked utterly

flabbergasted. The second time boggled his mind and from
there it was all downhill as he started moaning out loud,
writhing and straining so hard against the bonds that
held him, that the rope cut into him and drew blood.

After fifteen minutes of being on the edge of his orgasm

without having come, the man was beginning to foam at the
mouth and go crazy. Olivia remembered what a horrible
mess the British spy Fordyce had been in, after she'd
done this to him for nine hours straight. Then she
thought: If Fordyce didn't want the risk, he shouldn't
have joined the Secret Service.
But Rahmani wasn't a spy. He was just the Chief Steward
of the classy and upmarket Naval and Military Club in
Cairo. Olivia eased up on him.

'I went snooping through your office,' she smiled, 'and I

found the safe set into the floor.'

Rahmani stared at her in disbelief.

'Tell me the combination of the safe,' she said, 'and

I'll let you come inside me.'

Rahmani was still staring at her. 'You want to rob me?'

'Oh please,' she rolled her eyes impatiently. 'With all

that money in your wallet I could have robbed you
already, if that was my game.'

'You went through my wallet?' he asked incredulously.

'It's my job,' she said simply.

He stared at her. 'What are you saying?'

'I can't say any more,' she looked him in the eye. 'It's
a secret.'

Rahmani thought about what she'd just said. 'You're a

spy?'

'Enough chit-chat.' She took him to the precipice again

then, just before he came, did that thing and 'switched-
off' his orgasm before it began. He howled like a wounded
animal this time. After thirty minutes of it he was in a
total frenzy and after forty minutes of sexual-arousal
and not being allowed to come, he'd gone mad. Olivia had
given him a break for two minutes to regain a little of
his composure.

'I'm a Government agent, Abdullah,' she smiled and gave

him a drink of water. 'But I do like you. Really, I do.
I'm not here to rob you, or wreck your marriage, or fuck-
up your life. But I do need to look inside that safe of
yours. You have frequent dealings with important people
and my superiors need to know everything that you know.'

He was starting to believe her, she could see that.

'I'm going to give you some time to think about it.' She
stood up from his knee and looked down at him with a sad
smile on her face. 'I can keep doing this to you until
you truly go mad. And, unfortunately, there's no way to
know if the condition will be temporary or permanent.'

He looked up at her. 'You've done this to other men?'

'To protect Egypt,' she nodded. 'Yes, I have.'

'Have you killed people?'

She nodded and the look on her pretty brown face told
Rahmani it was true.

She was turning to leave him when he said: 'Five-One-Two

Left. Six-Four Right. One-Two-Eight Left.'

---oooOooo---

Olivia went to his safe, the combination he'd given her

opened it and she went back and untied him. Rahmani had
lunged at herin rage, his hands reaching for her throat,
and she drove her deliberately-shaped left fist into the
inverted 'U' of his ribcage, making him double-over and
fall to his knees holding his stomach.

She knelt beside him, stroked his face and said gently:
'I don't blame you for being angry. But I really do like
you and I hope, in time, that you'll be able to forgive
me. It's the world we live in, you see. Our country faces
threats and we have to stay one step ahead of those who
would do us harm. Which is where people like me come in.'

After a while he sat up straight and was able to speak.

'What's your name? Your real name?'

'Olivia.'

'You used your real name?' he asked incredulously.

'You're not the enemy, Mr Rahmani,' she told him. 'I've

made that clear in my report. Your safe was manufactured
overseas and we'd hoped the manufacturer would help us to
open it, but they refused. Which is why I was ordered to
do what I did. I've taken photographs of some of the
documents in your safe, and people from my Department may
contact you in the future to ask further questions, but
they'll be men with official ID. You don't need to worry,
the Police will never hear about what's in your safe. We
operate way above the Police. We're interested in the
National Security of Egypt, not rich men who break the
Traffic Code and then ask you to pull strings to get them
off the hook. Or politicians who ask for your help in
covering-up some affair they've had with another woman.'

'I'll talk to you about that when you've had your

shower,' he left her and closed the bathroom door. Twenty
minutes later the black girl came out with a towel
wrapped around her.

He'd prepared breakfast, which surprised her, and they

ate in companionable silence for a while, then drank the
coffee he'd made.

'I don't work on the weekends,' Rahmani told her. 'I

leave the Club in the hands of the Bar Manager. You're
rostered to work today, but all I have to do is make a
phone call and we can get one of the other girls to come
in.'

Thereby wrecking someone's plans for the weekend, Olivia

thought.

'Once you start treating me differently to the other

staff,' she told him, 'they'll know that something is
going on between us.'

'And you don't want that,' he said.

'The more people who know, the more chance there is of

your wife finding out,' she pointed out.

Rahmani nodded and looked very sad. 'I know you're

right,' he said, 'but I just want to be with you whenever
I can.'
'You're with me now,' she smiled.

'But you have to go home and change, then get back here
by eight to do your shift.'

'If you run me home in your car, at this time of the

morning we'd be there in fifteen minutes,' she said. 'I
could bring a change of clothes back here. If you drive
me that would be another fifteen minutes.'

'I'm not working Sunday,' Olivia had come to him and

slipped her long sleek brown arm around his neck. 'Can
you get away then?'

Chapter 6
Sunday, May 11, 1969.
Town of Marsa Matruh, on Egypt's Mediterranean coast.

The Owner/Manager of Marsa Matruh Camping Ground, whose

name was Hassan, lived in a small house attached to the
back of the camping ground office, and at six-forty that
morning he was eating his breakfast. He heard a vehicle
outside and there was a thud as a bundle of newspapers
was dropped onto the office porch. He went and retrieved
his Cairo Times from the bundle. The other newspapers
were for various residents of the camping ground, who
would take their newspapers from the bundle during the
couse of the day. Taking the Cairo Times into his house,
he read the sports-pages as he finished his breakfast. He
was pleased to see that in the soccer, Bahtim Wanderers
had defeated Sphinx Giza 3-1. A photo of an American girl
basketball-player in a short skirt caught his eye, as she
had been photographed scoring a goal for the Wisconsin
Wildcats that won them the match. She's a Wildcat all
right, the Camping Ground Manager said quietly, as he
eyed her long legs.

He turned to the Cartoons pages of the newspaper which,

for a Muslim country like Egypt, were very liberal. The
Manager liked the British cartoon Modesty Blaise, which
was about an adventurous young Englishwoman, and the
American cartoon L'il Abner, where the blonde bombshell
Miss Daisy wore clothes so revealing, she caused traffic-
accidents every time she walked down the street.

He also liked Layla, an Egyptian cartoon about a gorgeous

Egyptian girl who dressed like a belly-dancer, but was
really an Egyptian Freedom Fighter. It was set in the
1880s, when Egypt was occupied by the British Army, and
Layla would lure British soldiers into ambushes, flirt
with the guards so the Egyptian prisoners could escape,
or slip the British Ambassador a sleeping-potion then
steal his Top Secret papers. In today's cartoon Layla was
on a British Navy ship, entertaining the crew with her
belly-dancing while Egyptian Freedom Fighters sneaked on
board, opened the sea-cocks, and sank the ship.

Hassan was laughing as he stood up and checked his

wristwatch. Almost seven in the morning and time to open
the camping ground office. The first three hours of the
morning were often busy, as travelers came in after a
long drive to get some sleep. In 1969, few cars had
airconditioning, and in Egypt's hot climate it made sense
to drive in the cool of night, and sleep by day.
When he opened the outside-door of the office, Hassan saw
a sports car leave the Coast Road and enter the camping
ground. As it drew nearer he realized a girl was driving
it. She parked in front of his office and got out: a
pretty black girl of eighteen or nineteen, with short
black hair and long brown legs. Her white dress was worn
with a belt which highlighted her small waist and large
breasts. As she came walking towards his office he went
to the door and held it open for her, and as she stepped
past him into the office he saw she was tall, taller than
him in her high-heels. As she stood with her back to him
he could see her big firm round ass combined with a tiny
waist to gave the black girl a staggering curve of hip.
Her shoulders were broad and strong to take the weight of
large breasts and as she turned to the Camping Ground
Manager and smiled, he eyed her tits.

'Hi there.' She spoke English with an American accent and

seeing the Manager eyeing her breasts, she giggled. Guys
had been gawking at her ever since she was thirteen, when
her tall skinny brown body had begun growing more tit and
ass than anything the High School Sports Teacher had seen
outside a Playboy magazine.

'I'd like to stay here for a few days,' she told him.

'Our cabins cost ten Egyptian Pounds per day. How long
will you be staying with us?'

'Five days.'

'That will be fifty Pounds,' the Manager said. He went

behind the counter and opened the cash-register.

As she went to the counter and handed him the cash, her
hand grazed his and the Camping Ground Manager was aware
of a thick layer of hard callused skin on the outer-edge,
or 'blade', of the girl's brown hand. From what he knew,
the only way to get calluses on that part of the hand was
by doing some kind of Martial Arts training.

'Are you into Martial Arts?' he asked with a smile.

She nodded and smiled. 'Karate and Judo. I once lived in

a rough part of New York City and I wanted to be able to
defend myself. I can break a wooden-plank in half with a
single Karate-chop.' She made a chopping-motion with one
hand, and the Manager started to looked worried.

She reached across the counter to lay a cool brown hand

on his shoulder. 'Of course there are other things that I
can do with my hands. Things you would like.' As she
stroked his neck and caressed his ear the Manager grew an
erection that inflated his trousers.

The black girl gave a crazy little laugh and eyed the
hard-on in triumph, then she studied the Camping Ground
Manager, Hassan. Having seen his Egyptian Intelligence
file, she knew he was fifty-two, but his lined face made
him look older. He was in good shape though, and the
prospect of having him coming naked and erect between her
legs made her belly flutter with excitement. His face
looked 'lived-in' and they were the best ones to fuck.
Because they'd 'lived' such men had more to give a girl.

She eyed his stiff cock. 'I could help you with that.
Some time when you've got nothing on.' She gave him a
mischievous grin, and he laughed at her joke.

The Manager's Adam's Aple bobbed up and down in his

throat as he swallowed and eyed her breasts. 'I'm not
busy at the moment.'

'Don't you have to man the camping ground office?'

'I'm the Owner/Manager of this place,' he told her, 'so

I'm my own boss. I can leave the office for a few hours,
as long as I leave a sign on the door telling people when
I'll be back.'

'Do I have to sign-in?' she asked. She noticed he was

looking at her tits again.

Bewildered, stunned, and bewitched, the Manager shook his

head. 'Don't worry about it.' He turned to where dozens
of keys hung from hooks on the wall, and selected one.

'I'll take you to your cabin.' After hanging the 'BACK IN

THIRTY MINUTES' sign on his office door, he led the black
girl outside. He'd given her the cabin right next to his
office and they reached it in less than a minute. He
unlocked the door of the cabin and led the way in, then
turned and presented the key to her. 'This is the living
room/dining room. The bathroom/toilet is in there,' he
pointed, 'and that's the kitchen.'

Entering the kitchen, she found jars of powdered-milk,

coffee, tea and sugar sitting on the table. There was a
tea-pot, coffee-pot and cups in one of the cupboards, and
a silver tray. She came out and smiled at the Manager.
'Can I make you a cup of coffee?'
He hesitated, and she stood there with her hands on her
hips, staring at him. 'Listen' the black girl said, 'you
said before that you can be away from the office for a
few hours, so long as you put a sign on the office-door
saying when you'll be back. So you have time for a cup of
coffee.'

It struck the Camping Ground Manager that this black girl

was alert and very smart. And highly attractive. And as
she did Karate, probably very dangerous. Which of course
made her absolutely irresistable.

'A cup of tea would be nice,' he smiled.

'Fine,' she smiled back at him. Anything to keep him here

alone with me, she thought. Get him alone, get him hard,
then get him naked and fuck him. 'Sit down and I'll make
a pot of tea. By the way, what's your name?'

'Hassan,' the Camping Ground Manager told her.

'I'm Olivia.' She went into the kitchen and as Hassan sat
down on a couch, he frowned. Olivia. That name rang a
bell for some reason, but he had no idea why. Through the
open kitchen-door he heard the black girl filling the
kettle with water, then striking a match and lighting the
gas-ring on top of the stove. A few minutes later she
came into the living room carrying a tray with the tea-
things on it. As she set the tray down on a low table she
was aware of Hassan checking out her tits. Going back
into the kitchen, she pulled her arms up the sleeves of
her dress and took off her bra. After slipping-off her
panties she put them, and the bra, into her shoulder-bag.

Walking into the cabin's living room, Olivia sat on the

couch beside Hassan. As she turned grinning towards him
and crossed her legs her dress rode up, baring her long
stunning brown legs nearly all the way up to the top of
her thighs. It occurred to Hassan that these were
probably the best legs he'd ever seen on a woman, black
or white, and as he eyed them he grew an hard-on which
pushed up his trousers like a tent.

Pressing her lovely brown body up against the man, Olivia

turned towards him and as she lifted her nearest leg up
over his shoulder her dress rode up and Hassan saw that
beneath it she was naked. As she French-kissed him, her
hands unbuckled his belt and opened his trousers. His
stiff penis was now exposed and sticking up in the air,
and Olivia knew that she had to have him RIGHT NOW. With
her leg still up on his shoulder she bent the knee round
the back of the man's neck for purchase, pushed-off with
her hand and pulled herself up to sit astride his lap
facing him. The Camping Ground Manager was amazed by the
speed and cat-like agility with which the big black girl
had moved, and before he could do or say anything she'd
guided his erection into her vagina. Hassan immediately
started to thrust inside her and he became very hot and
red in the face, for he was still clothed.

Olivia lifted her dress off over her head and threw it
away and now she was naked, wearing nothing but her
stiletto-heeled shoes. Hassan was doing all kinds of he-
man stuff, grasping her small waist and lifting her up
and down as his erection plunged in and out of her.
Seeing he was about to come, Olivia lifted both of her
stiletto-heeled feet up on his chest and when the Camping
Ground Manager started to climax, she arched over
backwards away from him, putting stress on his erection
and restricted the flow of juice inside it. So instead of
coming in a heated rush like usual, the man's orgasm was
drawn-out and divided up into a sequence of short
piercing spasms of pure ecstasy, coming one after the
other, like nails from a nail-gun, each spasm was more
Earth-shattering than the one before it, until the
helpless shouting man felt like he was in Heaven. He was,
in fact, in the grip of a sexual hysteria that people in
India call asrave, and Olivia knew that if it didn't kill
the man, he would be 'hooked' on her sex. She suddenly
sat up straight, allowing him to come normally, and as
the liquid fire spurted out of his long rigid penis to
fill Olivia's vagina it felt so good that Hassan had
bellowed out loud.

From then on the Camping Ground Manager was hooked and he

couldn't get enough of Olivia. She was going back to
Cairo in a few days and the thought of being separated
from her drove him crazy.

When Omar Jabril called and invited him to join his

Intelligence Unit in Cairo, Hassan said 'yes' straight
away.

Chapter 6

Sitting on the couch with his back to the kitchen-door,

Hassan heard Olivia moving around in the kitchen, her
high-heels clicking on the tiled-floor. They made a
different sound on the wooden floorboards of the living
room as she walked in and moved up behind him, and when
Hassan glanced up he saw the high-heels were all she was
wearing. He was stunned by her nakedness and excited by
the beauty of her tall curvaceous brown body. Her brown
legs were incredibly long and stunning, and between her
sleek rounded brown thighs her big black pussy looked
hot. Hassan's eyes moved up over the flat brown belly and
tiny waist to her huge firm brown breasts, which were
capped by large brown nipples that pointed upwards. Above
a long graceful neck, Olivia's pretty brown face was
watching him as he eyed her off, and she knew he liked
what he saw because his penis swelled-ip up hard, forming
a tent in his trousers. Bending down over the seated man,
she grasped the tip of his penis through his trousers and
nipped it, making him yell.

Telling him to stand up, she undid his belt and slid his
trousers and underpants down around his knees. After
getting him to sit down on the couch again, she pulled
his shirt off over his head.

and as the hot naked black girl giggled at him, her huge
brown breasts jiggled gelatinously. Coming to stand
beside where he sat on the couch, she bent down over him
and drew his face in between her breasts to bury him in
her cleavage. His penis went hard, forming a tent in the
seated man's trousers and she when she reached down and
nipped it through his trousers, he yelled.
 A few minutes later she came into the living room
carrying a tray with the tea-things on it. As she set the
tray down on a low table he got an eyeful of her cleavage
down the opening in the top of her dress. The dress was
long but the skirts had thigh-high splits up each side,
which had been zipped closed earlier. Now the splits were
open, giving Hassan glimpses of her long slim legs.

As she sat on the couch beside him, Hassan saw the side-
splits in her dress gape open, and a flick of Olivia's
hand swept the skirts aside, baring her legs all the way
up to the top of her thighs. Her legs were incredibly
long, brown and stunning, quite muscular at the tops of
her thighs, but tapering-down beautifully through slim
knees and slimmer calves, to the slimmest ankles Hassan
had ever seen. He looked thunderstruck and he'd grown an
erection that pushed up his trousers like a tent.

Olivia gave that crowing laugh that a woman makes when

she's alone with a man, gets him hard, and knows that
she's going to have him. Pressing her gorgeous brown body
up against Hassan, she turned smiling towards him and as
she lifted her nearest leg up over his shoulder her dress
rode up and he saw that below it she was naked. As she'd
French-kissed the stunned man, her hands unbuckled his
belt, then unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers.

Chapter 7

She'd run away from home at fourteen and her body had
sustained her on the streets of Harlem, for if a girl had
a good body there would always be a man willing to pay
for it. At sixteen her knockout figure had ensured her
success as a Groupie with a rock band. They performed on
stage and afterwards, she performed back-stage. When she
was eighteen her body and her interest in militant Black
politics had got Olivia recruited by the Russian KGB, who
sent her to Egypt and their spy-training camp in the
desert near Cairo. The Camping Ground Manager was still
eyeing her tits and she giggled and batted her eyelashes
at him. This mission was going to be easy.

"I wanted you, Kenji. Hot, and hard, and coming inside
me. I needed you, but I didn't want to interrupt the
decoding you were doing." She gave him a lazy smile. "So
I came up here to do the job myself. Watch this." With
her legs wide open, she inserted the cucumber two inches
into the heavy lips of her vulva, then put her hands on
her head. The muscles in her hard flat brown stomach
began working and the cucumber was drawn up inside her,
then she relaxed and the cucumber dropped down until it
looked like it was going to fall out. Then, as she smiled
at the thunderstruck expression on the Japanese man's
face, she pulled it up inside her again, all the while
keeping her hands on her head.

Crazed with lust, he ripped his dressing-gown off and

knelt down naked between her thighs. Using his fingers to
open up her vulva, he licked her clitoris with his tongue
and when he nibbled it gently with his teeth the luscious
black girl came all over his face. The tinned-sardine
smell of her drew him in and he felt quite insane as he
began to lick her out. She climaxed again once, twice,
three times, then wrapped her thighs around his neck and
had a series of orgasms that left her lovely brown body
trembling all over.

With infinite tenderness Kenji Yuzawa picked her up,

carried her into the bedroom and made love to her for the
rest of that Saturday afternoon and evening.

---oooOooo---

When the Camping Ground Manager, Hassan, came awake, he

felt like a scuba-diver who has been down to the bottom
of the ocean, and who can only return to the world above
at a slow, measured pace.

He couldn't see, hear, smell or taste, but he had some

feeling, and this told him that he had a trunk, a head,
and in the lower extremities of his body, there were
two . . . what were they? . . . buttocks?

There were things that he just knew, but he had idea how
he knew them. One thing he knew was 'up' and that seemed
to be the direction he was moving in. But then again,
maybe he was really moving down, or sideways, or in a
double-helix spiral twist with bells on. It was even
possible that he wasn't moving at all, but simply thought
he was.

But that didn't bear thinking about.

If he didn't move he would be condemned to spend Eternity

down here, in the dark, in this place where Time had no
meaning.
Awareness faded away towards black and then, after an
unknown and indeterminate interval, Awareness slowly
returned.

Nothing had changed, except for his position. He had

moved 'up', if indeed it really was 'up'. Whatever it
was, there was a possible hint of an intimation, that
there could be the suggestion of light 'up' there. Maybe.

He would move towards that vague inkling of light,

firstly because he knew that he must keep moving, and
secondly because moving towards the light was a must. How
did he know those things?

He had no idea.

He just did.

Awareness faded away towards dark-gray and then, after an

unknown and indeterminate interval, Awareness slowly
returned.

The darkness was not as dark as it had previously been.

Hassan was certain about that. He was also certain that
his body was made of flesh, with an outer covering of
skin. Under the skin and flesh there was muscle and
sinew, veins and arteries full of hot blood. Nerves. And
running through him, from the top of his head down to the
base of his trunk, there was a wide passage, at the
moment empty, whose purpose he could only guess at.

An Alimentary Canal perhaps, for taking-in and processing

food and water?

And down below, in the lower extremities of his body,

there were those two things . . . what were they? . . .
buttocks?

They were roughly spherical in shape and there were two

of them, side-by-side, and jostling against each other.

Awareness faded away towards light-gray and then, after

an unknown and indeterminate interval, Awareness slowly
returned.
calm indifferent indifference malicious malignant benign
malign neutral

impassive unconcerned

---oooOooo---

The Camping Ground Manager's name was Hassan and, having

read his file, Olivia knew that for many years he'd
smuggled cigarettes and alcohol into Egypt by boat.
Lately he'd been providing Egyptian Intelligence with
tip-offs. Because of Hassan's skills as a smuggler,
sailor and car-mechanic, Omar Jabril wanted to employ him
in his Intelligence Unit, and he'd asked Olivia to 'check
him out'.

She was 'checking him out' right now, and although he was
naked with his stiff penis up her vagina, it wasn't
moving. He was under her Spell, which was to be expected,
for he'd climaxed twice in the last fifteen minutes.

The first time his hips had moved like a Rodeo-rider who
wanted to tame a Bucking Bronco. Then something had
kicked him in the small of the back and his body buckled
and yelled as the juice spurted out of his hard cock.
Hassan's second orgasm had been even better. On the bed
he was between Olivia's sexy long brown legs and as he
entered her she had arched-back, grabbed his ass and
pulled him deep into her vagina. Olivia's brown hands had
held and caressed him as her big round brown ass wiggled
around on the bed beneath him, and as he pumped away
inside her he was grinning like he'd never known it could
be this good. She'd put her legs up over his shoulders
and this excited him so much he went 'high', like he was
on drugs or something. Then Olivia had touched his balls,
setting-off fireworks inside his head, and as the hot
Seed spurted out of his hard cock Hassan had cried out
and fainted with the sheer exhilaration of it.

Thanks to her KGB-training, the nineteen year-old black

girl could tell that the Camping Ground Manager, Hassan,
would be unconscious for about one hour. She used this
time to go through his trouser-pockets and look through
his wallet, making notes and taking photos of anything
interesting. Olivia then pulled on her minidress, grabbed
his keys, went next door to his house, and looked through
his stuff. Women tend to hide things 'high-up' and men
tend to hide things 'low-down'. Hassan was a man, so the
black girl concentrated on 'low-down' places and she
struck gold. Hidden under the carpet in his office there
was a safe built into the floor, but it had a
combination-dial lock and she didn't know the numbers to
open it. She looked in the cupboard under his office-
sink, lifted the loose board at the bottom and found
Hassan's collection of Polaroid photos.

There was a photo of Robert Waylon Fordyce's British

Drivers License, an Egyptian Intelligence Wanted Poster
concerning Fordyce, and thirty-six photos of women, some
naked, and some of whom were having sex with Hassan. For
a fifty-two year-old, he certainly had a lot of stamina.

Olivia smiled and took pictures of all the photo, she

went back to Cabin 1, returned her camera to her
shoulder-bag and Hassan's keys to his trouser-pocket. He
was still asleep and she smiled and she smiled and got
undressed.

The fifty-two year-old Camping Ground Manager, Hassan,

had come twice in quick succession and
  he was naked with his stiff penis up her vagina and
it wasn't moving.
 He was under her Spell
 he'd climaxed twice in the last fifteen minutes.

The Camping Ground Manager woke some time later to find

himself sitting in an armchair wth his ankles lashed to
chair-legs and his forearms tied to the armrests. Olivia
appeared, naked, sat down on his knee and played with his
penis until it went hard.

erection and as she sat on his knee one of her slim brown
hands moved down towards his stiff penis, then at the
last moment slid off to one side and touched his thigh
instead. Her hand came back to his penis without touching
it, circled it and started to move away. Then she'd
suddenly grabbed it and she felt Kenji Yuzawa's whole
body tense-up. She gave a mischievous giggle that made
her breasts jiggle about under her shirt.

She watched his Adam's Apple bob up and down in his

throat as Yuzawa swallowed and stared at her tits, then
her hand began pumping his hard cock and he groaned out
loud. He went on groaning as she sat on his knee pumping
him, softly and slowly at first, then harder and faster.
He was on the verge of having another orgasm when her
other hand moved to the nerve-spot on the side of his
neck, just below the ear where his jaw hinged. She
pressed it briefly and Yuzawa blacked out.

"Under there is the Carotid Artery." Yuzawa had taught

her years ago, when he'd first begun teaching her Karate.
"It takes blood to the brain. Press that nerve-spot
briefly and a man will pass out for a moment. Press
longer and he'll be out for hours. Press too long and
you'll leave him in a coma or dead."

It amused Olga that she was now using her Karate skills
on Kenji Yuzawa himself, the very one who'd taught them
to her. Yuzawa was unconscious for less than a minute,
but when he woke up his near-orgasm had vanished, yet his
penis was still hard and the girl's brown hand was still
pumping it. He was soon ready to climax again, but once
more she pressed the nerve-spot in his neck and this time
when he passed-out, he was out for a couple of minutes.

He awoke feeling totally disorientated and found the

girl's hand still pumping away on his rigid prick. For
the next thirty minutes or so Olga kept taking Yuzawa to
the brink of his orgasm, only to make him fall
unconscious at the last moment, and eventually he had
gone crazy. He'd started shouting and yelling in Japanese
and saying strange things in English, then he'd had some
kind of a fit.

His entire body had stiffened, with his head thrown back
on his shoulders, so that he was staring up at the
ceiling of his study. His slanted brown eyes had bugged-
out and his mouth had opened wide to scream, but Olga's
hand did something to his Adam's Apple and the scream
remained trapped in his throat. A terrible pressure had
built-up inside his head and his face had turned red,
then a very unhealthy purple color and the veins and
sinews stood-out on his neck and forehead, while his eyes
looked like they would jump right out of his head. For a
couple of minutes Yuzawa had foamed at the mouth, then
suddenly all of the snot that was inside his head had
erupted out of his nose and he'd sat there looking
totally thunderstruck, with snot all over his face.

"Snot and cum are very similar," the black Aboriginal

girl grinned as she used her hand to wipe the clear
sticky mucus off his face. "One comes out of the head on
your shoulders. The other from the head on your penis."
It was as if the energy that should have traveled up his
penis to give him an orgasm had instead been channeled up
his spine and into his brain, blowing his mind and his
nose at the same time. Even though it was his nose that
had blown and not his penis, he felt the same sense of
satisfaction that a man feels after having an orgasm.
Yuzawa had never experienced anything like it before and
he sat there on the toilet too stunned to say or do
anything.

"It's one of the advantages of you being over forty,

Kenji," Olga purred in his ear, "I can do things like
that to you. It doesn't work on younger men.

Chapter 6
Olivia knew from his Egyptian Intelligence file that he
was fifty-two years older. His lined and weather-beaten
face made him look older

She was checking him out right now and the Manager, whose
name was Hassan, was loving every minute of it.

---oooOooo---

She found a sheet in one of his office cupboards, draped

it over him as he slept on the desk, and eyed a key he
wore on a string around his neck. Engraved on it was the
word 'CHUBB', a company that made safes. There was also a
number which she wrote in her pocket diary.

 xxx Camping Ground Manager's daily morning walk

around Camping Ground
 xxx Olivia's pink silk dress – effect on CGM
 xxx cupboard under sink in CGM's office

Chapter 5

THREE DAYS LATER

Monday, May 5, 1969.

Town of El Alamein, on Egypt's Mediterranean coast.

Omar Jabril was so happy about taking-out the British spy

Fordyce and the treasure-trove of secrets they'd got from
him, that he wanted to employ the four trainee-agents
who'd worked on the operation. He called his boss General
Salah to talk about it, but as usual he was at the Naval
and Military Club. Jabril decided not to return to Cairo
until the General agreed to employ the trainees. To pass
the time, Jabril hired a mini-bus in El Alamein, where
they'd spent the night, and took his team to Alexandria
for the day. To keep the tape-recordings of the Fordyce
interrogation secure, they took them with them: eighteen
big reels of tape, each with two hours of recording on
it. With Ali driving, Jabril sat with the trainees. The
guys Yusuf, Kamil and Hussein were friendly as usual, but
the girl Olivia wasn't talking to Jabril. At the hotel
last night, she'd knocked on Jabril's door and he'd sent
her away. No man had rebuffed her like that before, and
she was angry. The black girl was sitting by herself down
the back of the mini-bus plotting how to get back at him,
when Jabril slipped into the seat beside her.

'We need to talk,' he said.

Pointedly ignoring him, she turned her head to look at

the traffic driving the opposite way on the Coast Road,
and the bleak desert landscape beyond the road.

'A man in my position has to be careful who he sleeps

with,' Jabril said. 'Especially with an nineteen year-old
girl he might want to employ in his Intelligence unit.'

Despite herself, the nineteen year-old black girl turned

to look at him, with surprise on her lovely brown face.

'In view of your remarkable achievements in dealing with

the British spy Fordyce, I think Egyptian Intelligence
should offer you and the guys jobs.' Jabril paused to let
that sink in. 'I haven't told the guys yet, so please
don't mention it in front of them.'

'Why haven't you told them?' Olivia wanted to know.

'At this stage it's just a recommendation from me to my

boss. Nothing more.'

'You don't want to get the guys' hopes up, then have it
fall-through for some reason.'

'That's right,' Jabril agreed.

'So why tell me?' the black girl asked.

'Because you can handle it, and I trust you not to tell
the others,' Jabril said. 'And because I need your help.
When I called Cairo to talk to my boss, General Salah,
about the great job you guys did, he wasn't available. He
spends a lot of time, including work-time, at the Naval
and Military Club in Nile Street. He mixes with Egypt's
elite there, but also with some dubious characters.'

'What do you want me to do?' Olivia asked.

'I have contacts at the labor-hire company the Naval and
Military Club get their barmen and waitresses from . . .'

'So on this trip to Alexandria, you're going to get me

measured-up for a waitress uniform?'

The girl was smiling at him, which was a welcome change,

and Jabril smiled back at her. 'Amongst other things. I'm
going to buy everyone on the team lunch, as a thank-you
for a job well-done. Then you and I will go into the city
and get the waitress unifom organized, plus another item
of clothing. I want to employ the Manager of the Marsa
Matruh Camping Ground in my Intelligence unit, but I'd
like you to check him out first. So when we get back to
Marsa Matruh I'll book us into cabins at the Camping
Ground, throw a little party, and invite the Manager.'

'And you want me to act the whore, get close and spy on
him.' The beautiful black girl nodded. 'Okay. At the KGB
training-camp one of the Russian female instructors said
that to be a good spy, a woman has to be twice as clever
as a man and ten times more ruthless. And in return
she'll get less pay and fewer promotions.'

Jabril nodded and looked rather sad.

It was the sad look on his face that convinced Olivia she
could trust him, and as the mini-bus continued driving
towards the city of Alexandria, she started talking.

'When people start KGB spy-training they have to abandon

their families, friends, and past lives,' Olivia told
Jabril. 'To help with that, each trainee is given a new
name. So, having been born in America in 1950 to a family
of black African migrants and Christened with one name,
last year I was re-named Olivia by the KGB. I'm not sure
what my parents would make of that, but as I haven't
spoken to them since I was fourteen years old, I guess it
doesn't matter.'

Jabril looked at her without saying anything and saw she

was very calm, and meant evrything that she'd just said.
He went back to staring at the head-rest of the seat in
front of him and the black American girl continued with
her story.

'My parents are conservative Catholics from north-central

Africa,' she said. 'That was where THEY grew up. By
migrating to the USA after World War Two, they chose
America as the place where I would grow up, but then they
expected to me to be a good AFRICAN girl. I always upset
them, disappointed them, and sometimes shocked them, and
then one day they woke up and realized I was an AMERICAN.
After that I was always in trouble with my parents, so at
fourteen I ran away to New York City.'

'I lived in Harlem for three years, selling myself on the

street. I met this black lady named Mama Doc. The people
in that area are so poor they can't afford a real doctor,
so when they get sick they see Mama Doc. She's a Healer,
Herbalist and Witch, who also has sex with men. But she
never charges for the sex, as she says giving a man sex
is her Sacred Duty to the Goddess. Mama Doc is a good
person, if you can believe that. When she heard a Pimp
was threatening me she told the Pimp to leave me alone,
and he did. When my Landlord wanted to fuck me, Mama Doc
visited him, and afterwards the Landlord started treating
me like I was a Royalty. I mean, he was so terrified, he
never laid a finger on me again.'

'Why are these men scared of Mama Doc?' Jabril asked.

'Well,' the black girl said, 'people in Harlem have seen

Mama Doc make a doll out of straw and clay that looks
just like a real person. At a Voodoo ceremony she sets
fire to the doll and three blocks away the person bursts
into flames while they're walking down the street.'

Jabril looked at her. 'What time of year was this?'

'Summer,' Olivia frowned, 'what's that got to do with

it?'

'There are certain chemicals . . .'

'Okay,' Olivia nodded. 'So maybe Mama Doc has a chemistry

set at home. However she does it, the people she puts a
Hex on still end up dead.'

Omar Jabril smiled. He liked the way this black American

girl talked: straight and very direct.

She resumed her story. 'Just before my seventeenth

birthday an unarmed black construction worker called
Denzil Dowell was shot dead by the cops in North
Richmond, California. I began going to protest marches
and at a protest in New York, I met Lonnie.'

Olivia said Lonnie had been a bank-robber and Leader of

the Hidden Hand, a radical and violent Afro-American
group who were so obsessed with secrecy that few people
had ever heard of them. The Hidden Hand was also known as
H H, and as 'H' is the eighth letter of the alphabet,
oblique mention of them appeared in some Police and FBI
Reports, where they were referred to as '88 Group', or
'the 88'. Having fallen for Olivia big-time, Lonnie set
her up in a fancy apartment in Manhattan, paid for by a
bank-robbery and three jewelry-store heists. At the
apartment Olivia met lots of weird and dangerous people,
and fucked some of them. Lonnie truly loved her, but he
was aware of the difference in their ages and kept saying
he didn't want to 'own' her. So Olivia was free to do
WHAT she wanted with WHO she wanted.

At the Manhattan apartment Olivia was introduced to

Caviar and Cocaine and when he was 'high' one time, she
got Lonnie to make a Will giving her the apartment and a
stack of money if he died. Nine months later Lonnie
dropped dead of a heart-attack, probably due to too much
Caviar, Cocaine and Olivia. As Olivia was a few months
short of her eighteenth birthday, the apartment was put
under the control of a Court-appointed Trustee. The
Trustee was an old white lawyer who didn't like Olivia's
politics and lifestyle, and when her eighteenth birthday
rolled around, he told her that he wasn't prepared to
sign the apartment over to her 'at this time'. Whatever
that was supposed to mean.

As Lonnie's 'widow' Olivia had become very active in the

Hidden Hand, who by this time were working with Russian
KGB spies on plans to sabotage military bases, dams and
power plants all over the USA. When she told a female KGB
agent what the lawyer was doing, the Russian woman told
Olivia how to handle him. So Olivia removed her nose-
ring, started wearing nice dresses and stopped swearing
in front of the old white man. After finding out the
lawyer liked Apple Pie, she got Mama Doc to show her how
to make it. Knowing what she was up to, Mama Doc told
Olivia to add something to her Apple Pie and she did. At
a scheduled meeting one Friday afternoon, she took her
home-made Apple Pie to the lawyer's office.

The old white lawyer liked her Apple Pie, to which Olivia
had added parts of a Blue Lotus plant, the natural source
of a chemical that one day would be an active ingredient
in Viagra. Once his secretary went home Olivia got the
old man hard and kept him hard for the whole weekend,
which he spent in his office with her. By the time Monday
came, the lawyer had ended his Trusteeship and signed the
apartment over to Olivia. At four o'clock on the Monday
morning she took the papers that made the apartment hers
and left him sleeping naked on his office couch, where
his secretary found him four hours later. She rang a
Partner of the law-firm, who raced in from his mansion on
Park Avenue, heard the weird stuff his boss was saying
and called a Psychiatrist. The old white lawyer was
wheeled away in a strait-jacket and his secretary took an
outstandingly-generous Early Retirement Package, in
return for signing a Non-Disclosure Agreement.

The way Olivia had handled the situation was known to the
KGB, and they realized she had talents they could use.
After she'd attended a meeting of the Hidden Hand one
night, the female KGB agent she was friendly with took
Olivia to a Safe House to meet the KGB Rezident, the man
in charge of all KGB operations in the United States. The
KGB woman left her alone with the Rezident, who was very
courteous and charming, but Olivia sensed the power and
ruthlessness behind the civilized mask. He was drinking
from a bottle of vodka and as he got drunk, he told her
about the heroic exploits of KGB agents in America, about
the even greater exploits planned for the future, and how
Olivia could be part of it. Around Midnight he slid his
hand up her skirt and tried to kiss her and she'd grabbed
hold of his balls, not hurting him, but letting the guy
know that she could hurt him if she wanted to.

'If this is how you recruit females,' the black girl had
smiled at the Russian, 'you should know I AM interested
in serving the Cause. But if you ever touch me again
you'll be walking funny for a week.' The KGB man laughed
and dropped the drunk act, and when Olivia took a sip
from his glass, she found it contained water. She grabbed
the vodka bottle and took a swig from it. Water.

'You really are very good,' the KGB Rezident told her. He
explained how Olivia could best serve the Cause and she
agreed to go to a KGB spy-training camp near Cairo,
Egypt, where she would learn how to kill people and blow
things up. So eleven months ago, in June 1968, she'd come
to Cairo for six months of KGB spy-training. She should
have returned to America last December but as she was one
of the best recruits, Olivia had been chosen to do six
months of Special Training. 'Special' wasn't the right
word for it. There was no word for it.

After three years on the streets of Harlem she thought

she knew about sex, but the KGB Special Training revealed
an entire Universe of sex that she'd never known about.
Interrogation and torture? They taught her about those as
well, including how to Enthrall a man into a deep Trance
and then steal his secrets. The KGB had also taught her
about Smuggling and how girls have more places to hide
stuff in than guys. With practice and daily exercise of
the vagina, surprisingly-large objects can be concealed
inside a woman. When Olivia's family migrated from Africa
to America they had smuggled-in gold bars, but no-one
would ever say HOW they'd smuggled in the gold bars.
Olivia now believed she knew. Every time she thought of
her Mother and Aunts walking around with gold bars up
them, she would fall about laughing until she almost wet
herself.

Olivia paused in her narrative, aware that Omar Jabril

was staring at her. 'Sorry, man,' she giggled. 'I guess
that was too much information.'

The mini-bus was slowing for the turn-off to Alexandria,

and a few minutes later they pulled-in to a Truck Stop to
top up the mini-bus's gasoline tank. Everyone got out to
stretch their legs and Jabril led them into the Truck
Stop to pay for the gas, and get everyone a cup of tea or
coffee. Olivia said she'd help carry the drinks to the
table, and as she stood with Jabril at the counter she
started telling him a dirty-joke in English, so hopefully
the Egyptian truck-drivers standing nearby wouldn't know
what she was saying. She was halfway through when a
truck-driver who'd just got his coffee began laughing.

'Forgive me Miss,' he said in perfect English, I've heard

that joke before.'

The tall beautiful black girl gave that crazy laugh of

hers and it was so infectious that everyone around,
including Jabril, found themselves laughing along with
her. As they sat at the nearby table waiting for their
cups of tea and coffee, Hussein, Yusuf and Kamil heard
Olivia laughing, looked at each other and smiled.

'It's good to see she's in a good mood again,' Ali said.

'Does she get into bad moods often?'

'Not really,' Yusuf told him. 'But she IS a woman.' To

which no argument was possible, and the men all nodded.

Jabril and Olivia brought the cups of tea and coffee

over, handed them out, and sat down at the table. Olivia
didn't tell her dirty-joke, but soon had them laughing at
something else she said. After finishing their drinks
they all piled back into the mini-bus and drove into the
center of Alexandria, the city founded by Alexander the
Great 2300 years earlier. They got stuck in the morning
peak-hour traffic, but it was such a cosmopolitan and
vibrant place that it was fascinating to watch the daily
life of the city through the windows of the mini-bus.
At Noon, Jabril took them to a French restaurant for
lunch and everyone drank wine, except Hussein, who never
touched alcohol.

'It's okay to kill people and blow shit up,' Olivia

commented. 'But we mustn't drink alcohol. Even though, in
some of the Muslim Caliphates, they DID drink alcohol.'
Hussein looked angry and she got up, went to him and
kissed him on the mouth. The kiss lasted a long time and
Jabril and Ali sat staring. Kamil and Yusuf shrugged and
Jabril had a feeling that, at one time or another, Olivia
had slept with all of these guys. Yet they respected the
black girl, and she was obviously their leader.

After lunch they went their separate ways to explore the

city and by prior arrangement, Jabril and Olivia met in a
department store. The big black girl got measured-up for
a waitress uniform, then she looked at dresses until she
found a pink silk creation that she liked. She went into
the Fitting Rooms to try it on and when she emerged she
saw the effect it had on Jabril, even though he tried to
hide it. After paying for everything and arranging for
the waitress uniform to be sent to Jabril's office in
Cairo, they walked through inner-city Alexandria. The
pink silk dress was in a shopping-bag that Olivia carried
and she walked slightly ahead of him. Her black jumpsuit
hugged her figure and a few steps behind, Omar Jabril
couldn't stop looking at her ass. As she walked it swayed
from side to side, waving at him.

Everyone had agreed to meet back at the mini-bus at three

o'clock and it was now 2.20 PM. Jabril caught up with
Olivia and said she should head back. He was going to try
calling General Salah again. She nodded and strode off
towards the secure-carpark where they'd left the mini-
bus, while Jabril went looking for a public telephone
that didn't have a line of people waiting to use it.

---oooOooo---

She found a sheet in one of his office cupboards, draped

it over him as he slept on the desk, and eyed a key he
wore on a string around his neck. Engraved on it was the
word 'CHUBB', a company that made safes. There was also a
number which she wrote in her pocket diary.

 xxx Camping Ground Manager's daily morning walk

around Camping Ground
 xxx Olivia's pink silk dress – effect on CGM
 xxx cupboard under sink in CGM's office

---oooOooo---

The Owner and Manager of Marsa Matruh Camping Ground

lived in the brick house behind the Camping Ground
Office, and at six-thirty that morning he was having
breakfast when he heard the thud of the morning
newspapers being delivered.

Putting down a piece of toast, he grabbed a knife, walked

down the corridor and entered the office. Opening the
outside door, he saw the bundle of newspapers sitting in
the office porch. The man who'd delivered them was
turning his van around and when he saw the Manager, he
waved. The Manager waved back and watched the guy driving
out of the camping ground to make his next newspaper
delivery. Using the knife, the Manager cut the strings
that kept the newspapers bundled together, and took a
copy of the Cairo Times newspaper for himself. The other
newspapers were for various residents of the camping
ground, who would come to the office porch and take their
newspapers from the bundle. Leaving the bundle on the
porch, he took his Cairo Times inside and started reading
it as he finished his breakfast.

As usual the Manager read the Sports Pages first, and was
pleased to discover that in the soccer, Bahtim Wanderers
had beaten Sphinx-Giza 2-1, while Heliopolis United had
totally demolished Al Maadi Rovers 5-0. On another page
there was a photo of a black American female basketball
player in a singlet and ultra-short shorts, taken just
before she scored the goal which allowed the Wisconsin
Wildcats to win the match. That girl is definitely a
Wildcat, Hassan thought, as he scrutinized her legs, then
her figure.
He then turned to the Cartoons pages of the newspaper
which, considering Egypt was a Muslim country, were
surprisingly-liberal. British and American cartoons were
featured, and Hassan liked L'il Abner, the American
cartoon where the drop-dead gorgeous farm-girl Miss Daisy
wore little shorts and revealing tops that attracted the
guys, but which also caused car-accidents whenever she
walked down the street. In one memorable cartoon, a man
on a bicycle was so distracted by her that he pedalled up
a wooden plank, fell off the end, and landed in two feet
of muck in a farmer's pig-pen.

But of all the cartoons, the Manager's favorite was an

Egyptian one. The Adventures of Leila were about the
exploits of a young Egyptian woman with incredibly-long
legs, a miniscule waist and impossibly-big boobs, who
dressed like a belly-dancer but was really a Freedom-
Fighter. The Adventures of Leila cartoons were set in the
1880s, when Egypt was occupied by the British Army, and
Leila was always luring British soldiers into ambushes,
distracting the British guards while the Egyptian
prisoners escaped, or using her charms to beguile the
British Governor and then steal his Top Secret papers. In
one cartoon Leila swam out to a British Navy ship,
climbed the anchor-chain and entertained the Captain and
crew with her belly-dancing. Meanwhile, Egyptian Freedom-
Fighters sneak on board, open the sea-cocks and sink the
ship. In escaping the sinking ship Leila finds herself
alone with the British Captain in a row-boat. He accuses
her of helping the Freedom-Fighters to sink his ship and
wants to tie her up. Leila suggests that he might like it
better if she ties HIM up. In the next picture we see the
row-boat has made it ashore. In the picture after that we
see the Captain lying tied-up in the bottom of the row-
boat. Asleep and with a mile-wide smile on his face, the
Captain is naked apart from his Captain's-hat, which is
covering his groin.

The Manager wondered how they ever sneaked that one past
the Egyptian Government Censors, who were always on the
lookout for anything that might 'promote licentiousness'
or 'encourage lewd behavior'. The thing about The
Adventures of Leila was that Leila was never nude.
Almost, but not quite. And nothing sexual was ever
depicted, but almost EVERYTHING was hinted at.

It was now seven o'clock in the morning and time to open

the Camping Ground Office. The time between seven and
nine in the morning could be quite busy, as travelers and
people on vacation came in after a long period of night-
driving, to book a cabin so they could get some sleep. In
1969 few cars had airconditioning and in Egypt's climate,
which was often unbearably hot during the day, it made a
lot of sense to sleep by day and drive in the cool of the
night, when there was less traffic, less stress on the
driver, and less stress on the vehicle.

As the Manager walked to the door of the Camping Ground

Office and unlocked it, he looked out through the window
in the door and saw a red Mercedes-Benz sports car turn
off the Coast Road and drive through the open gates into
the camping ground.

The first customer of the day always brings trouble, the

Manager remembered the Egyptian shopkeeper's saying which
dated back to the time of the Pharoahs. As the red sports
car came closer he saw it's only occupant was the black
girl behind the wheel. American or European, he guessed,
judging by her sleeveless white dress. While there were
many black girls in Egypt and many of them wore western
clothes, they usually avoided sleeveless dresses, which
were considered be be too revealing. As she parked in
front of his office and got out of the Mercedes-Benz
sports-car, the Camping Ground Manager saw the black girl
was very tall and very beautiful. As she came towards his
office the wind caught her dress and opened a thigh-high
split up the side which gave him a glimpse of her long
slender brown legs. In sunglasses and with short dark
hair, the black girl was as sleek and agile as a panther.

Then her hand was on the door of his office, pulling it

open, and when she saw the Camping Ground Manager she
seemed to stumble on her high-heels. In an instinctive
move, he took hold of her hand and elbow to steady her,
and he became aware of three things. Firstly, the outer-
edge, or 'blade' of her brown hand was heavily-callused,
leading him to conclude that she must do Karate training.
Second, the skin of her brown forearm was very soft to
his touch, but he could feel bone just below the surface.
Thirdly, she was probably six feet tall in her bare feet,
but her stiletto-heeled shoes added another three-inches
heels to her height, so at the moment she was six inches
taller than the Manager. As she leaned forwards against
him he was aware of her breasts sticking into his face.

'I'm always falling for strange men,' the big black girl
joked, 'and I'm glad you were there to catch me.' As she
laughed her large breasts jiggled around in the Manager's
face. She clearly wasn't wearing a bra, and despite the
size of her tits, she clearly didn't need one. They stood
up proudly in front of her as if defying gravity, like
gigantic melons straining against the front of her dress.
'Do you do some kind of Martial Arts?' the Manager asked.

'Yes,' she laughed, 'the hands are a giveaway aren't

they? But my hands can do other things, like this.'
Reaching down to the front of his pants, her fingertips
found where the 'head' on the tip of his penis was and
tapped it through his pants. The Camping Ground Manager
grunted in surprise, then grew an erection that pushed
out his pants like a tent.

'I'm Olivia by the way,' she nudged his stiff penis with
her thigh, making him moan out loud. 'What's your name?'

'Hassan.' He gasped out loud as she did something else to

his prick. She slid a hand down inside the front of his
pants to hold his stiff penis and Hassan muttered
something in Arabic.

The tall beautiful black girl reached for the zipper on

the front of her dress and as she slid the zipper all the
way down her dress fell open and Hassan saw she wore
nothing underneath it. He glimpsed her black pussy
nestled in between sleek rounded brown thighs, her tiny
waist and flat brown stomach, and the vast cleavage
between large firm brown breasts. Using both of her
hands, she grabbed hold of Hassan's ears and pulled his
face in to bury him between her breasts.

They were standing just inside the glass door of the

Camping Ground Office and Olivia guided Hassan back from
the door, then she operated the snib to lock it. Noticing
a sign that read:
WILL BE BACK IN THIRTY MINUTES

she hung it in the glass-door of the office, then

twiddled the blinds on the door to close them. There were
two other windows and she quickly shut and locked them,
then closed the blinds on them.

Returning to where the fifty year-old Arab man stood, she

noticed that his lined face looked more like that of a
seventy year-old. The big sexy black girl liked that. A
man can only give what he has, and a man with such a
'lived-in' face would possess much: much 'grit', much
balls, much knowledge, much wisdom; and much experience.
His Soul-Bank would be full. Olivia believed that if a
girl fucks a guy in a certain way, when he comes she can
receive more than just his Seed, and the more in his
Soul-Bank the more he has to give her.
Slipping a hand down the front of his pants again, she
made the Camping Ground Manager shriek. Unbuckling his
belt she dropped his pants down round his ankles and as
she pulled his underpants down to his knees, his long
stiff penis sprang out at her. It was an old cock with
the foreskin still attached, and as she retracted the
foreskin Hassan gasped. Squatting down in front of him
she had one hand on his balls and her other hand on his
hard cock. Hassan gasped, grunted, shouted in Arabic,
bellowed out loud and sank to the carpeted floor as he
went weak at the knees. Olivia followed him down and used
her lips, tongue, teeth, and the sweet moist warmth of
her mouth to pleasure Hassan until he was writhing around
helpless on the floor. Sliding the finger of one hand up
his ass, while doing other things to his big rigid penis,
the big hot black girl brought him to the very brink of
his orgasm, then, just as the man thought he going to
come, she touched him in a certain way between his
urethra and his anus, and his near-orgasm vanished. It
was one of the tricks she'd learned in Sex Class at the
KGB spy-training camp in the desert just outside Cairo.

Despite his near-climax having been stolen, the Camping

Ground Manager named Hassan remained stiff and hard and
sexually aroused, so Olivia went to work on him again.
When he neared his orgasm again she used the same trick
to make it disappear again. When she did this a third
time the Arab man went absolutely crazy.

Olivia kept him hard and in a state of sexual frenzy for

thirty minutes before she inserted him into her vagina
and let him come, and as the red-hot Seed flowed up
through his erection and began shooting into the black
girl's vagina Hassan shouted in Arabic and was knocked-
out by the exhilaration of it.

Rolling up his eyelids, the big black girl could tell

that he'd be unconscious for at least four hours. She
spent that time searching through his office, house, and
car, going through his papers and letters, finding out
what she could about Hassan. Jabril wanted to recruit
Hassan to the Intelligence unit, so he'd sent Olivia to
'get close' to the man. In the cupboard under the sink at
the back of his office, she discovered the hidey-hole
beneath the loose board, which had the two photos in it:
one of Fordyce's Drivers License, and the other of the
Egyptian Intelligence 'Wanted' poster with Fordyce's
picture on it.

Keeping a man hard and on the brink of orgasm, without

letting him come, was known as 'Enthralling' and it was
the basis of the interrogation technique she'd used on
the British spy named Fordyce. Thirty minutes of
Enthralling meant a man would be unconscious for at least
four hours. One hour of Enthralling and he'd be 'out' for
at least twelve hours. Two hours of Enthralling risked
heart-attack, stroke, brain-damage, coma or death, but if
the man lived he'd be unconscious for forty-eight hours.

Because the British spy Fordyce had been a very fit and
strong man he'd survived eight hours of Enthralling and
had gone into a Trance at 5.00 AM on the Sunday morning.
Once in the Trance he became strangely child-like, and
very cooperative. So he answered all questions truthfully
and even volunteered information that Olivia hadn't
thought to ask him about. A tape-recorder had picked up
every noise and every word that Fordyce uttered, and the
interrogation by Enthrallment had all taken place on the
cabin-cruiser Tangier, far out to sea where the noises
Fordyce made wouldn't disturb anyone. For thirty-six
hours the Enthralled British spy had told Olivia
everything he knew, which turned out to be rather a lot,
because he'd been a British spy and assassin for thirty
years. The nineteen year-old black American girl had
spoon-fed him like he was a baby, given him cups of tea,
but apart from that he just talked nonstop for thirty-six
hours. By 5.00 PM on Monday, May 5, 1969 Fordyce was
talking gibberish and, because of the things she'd done
to the man to Enthrall him, his mind would be permanently
scrambled.

In any case, Captain Jabril's orders had been clear: once

you've got everything from the Englishman that you CAN
get, he has to die. But a curious bond had developed
between the British spy and the black girl who had
Enthralled him, so she'd killed him in the nicest way she
knew how and Fordyce died at 6.10 PM that Monday, with a
smile on his face.

After putting her clothes on, Olivia had gone up on the

Tangier's deck and signalled Yusuf, Kamil and Hussein
that they could turn their headphones off, as Fordyce was
now dead. They'd dressed Fordyce's body as best they
could, propped him up at the wheel of the cabin-cruiser,
then siphoned gasoline from the boat's tank and poured it
everywhere throughout the boat.

Night was falling as they dropped the anchor behind the

Tangier, started her engines, tied the wheel so the boat
would go straight ahead and aimed it at Zuweid Reef,
three hundred yards away. After setting the throttle to
maximum power, Olivia and the three young men jumped into
the Tangier's inflatable-dinghy, and when they cut the
anchor-rope the Tangier surged forward with Fordyce's
corpse on board, hit Zuweid Reef and fireballed.

Starting the inflatable-dinghy's outboard motor, they'd

taken her thirty-seven miles east of Marsa Matruh, to a
remote peninsula that jutted into the Mediterranean Sea,
where Omar Jabril and Ali were waiting for them.

---oooOooo---

 removes page 45 from all the copies of the Cairo

Times that are sitting in the porch of the Camping
Ground Office

 bed-talk about her past

 ---oooOooo---

It was 10.00 AM when the Camping Ground Manager looked

out of his office window and saw the Toyota turn off the
Coast Road and come through the open gates into the
camping ground. The vehicle's only occupant was the black
girl behind the wheel and he watched her park in front of
his office and get out of the car. American, he guessed,
very tall and very beautiful. As she came towards the
Camping Ground Office the wind caught her skirt, blowing
open a thigh-high split and giving the Manager a glimpse
of her long brown legs. In sunglasses and with her dark
hair cut very short, the sexy black girl moved with the
sleek lithe agility of a panther.

The Camping Ground Manager opened his office door to her

and before he had time to say anything she headed over to
where two couches faced each other across a low coffee-
table. As the girl sat down the split opened in the side
of her skirt and her hand swept the skirt to one side,
baring her long stunning brown legs all the way up to the
tops of her thighs. The Manager stopped and stared at
them, for he couldn't recall having ever seen better legs
on a woman, whether black or white. As the Manager sat on
the couch opposite her, the girl had crossed her legs and
he saw the black hair of her pussy come into view between
her thighs. The Camping Ground Manager sat there gawking
at the black girl, his mind churning as he realized that
beneath the skirt she was naked.

'My name is Olivia,' she smiled, 'and a big check is due

to reach my bank-account in a few days time. Until then
I'm broke, and I'm wondering if I can stay here for a few
days, until my money comes through.' As she uncrossed and
re-crossed her legs the Camping Ground Manager felt his
balls tighten up. The black girl saw his Adam's Apple
bobbing up and down as the Arab man swallowed, then he'd
grown an erection that pushed up his pants like a tent.
He stood up, moved around the low coffee-table and sat
down on the couch beside her.

'What's your name?' Olivia's brown hand moved to his

thigh and she began stroking it his erection throbbed.

'Hassan.' He put his hand up her skirt.

'I'm Olivia.' She lifted one of her legs up and rested it

on his shoulder and something snapped inside the fifty
year-old Arab's brain. He got down on his knees in front
of her, used his fingers to open her up, then stuck his
rigid tongue into her vagina. She squealed and came all
over his face and he went mad, licking her out. She came
again, multiple times, but the Manager used his lips and
tongue to keeping licking and sucking.

Later he took his clothes off, helped the big hot black
girl to get undressed, then fucked her on the shag-pile
carpet. With his deeply-lined face Hassan looked seventy,
but he was actually fifty, and he'd looked after himself.
So the Arab man's light-brown body was trim and muscular
but he had that old-looking face and Olivia liked having
him on top of her and LOVED having his stiff cock up her
cunt. The first time, Hassan's body had acted like a
Rodeo Rider trying to tame a bucking bronco, and as the
girl's ripe rounded brown ass wriggled itself around on
the carpet underneath him, his erection had jabbed away
moving unbelievably fast and penetrating deep inside her.
Then he came and there was so much cum Olivia felt like
he'd filled her all the way up to her ears.

Still on the carpet, Hassan had started up again almost

immediately and his old-looking face was grinning like a
crazy man. Olivia had done a horizontal hula-dance under
him that drove the old man absolutely wild. As the big
hot black girl writhed around under him, gasping and
moaning and coming as he pumped away inside her, the Arab
man got so hot that his light-brown skin turned red all
over his body. His face went from red-hot to a kind of
purple color, the sinews stood out on his neck, and his
rigid penis plunged in and out of her soft moist vagina
like the big steel piston moving inside a machine. As he
neared climax, old Hassan had suddenly slowed right down
and now he was grunting loudly and continuously. He
wanted to delay his orgasm so he could keep enjoying the
black girl, but she'd lifted her long lissom brown legs
up into the air, then drawn them back until her ankles
were behind her ears. Olivia did Yoga and her body was as
flexible as brown rubber, so doing this was no big deal
for her, but for the man who had his stiff penis inside
her it was REALLY SOMETHING. What felt like an explosion
in the small of his back made his muscular body squirm
helplessly and as the fire flowed up through him and shot
out into the black girl's vagina it felt so good that
Hassan screamed and was knocked-out by the rapture of it.
Olivia with Omar Jabril:

As she eyed Omar Jabril, Olivia thought what a handsome

devil he was. 'We should meet,' she whispered, 'have sex,
and record it. I promise to amaze you.' The black girl
grinned and winked at him, then ran her tongue slowly
across her upper-lip. Leaving Jabril stunned, she walked
over to the KGB man and handed back the headphones.

TEN DAYS LATER

Tuesday, May 13, 1969.

Cairo, Egypt.

The black girl named Olivia had been blowing men's minds
for a number of years. At nineteen years of age and six
feet tall, she caught the attention of every man on the
street as she got off the bus and walked up to the gates
of the Egyptian Army base.

In long Muslim robes with no head covering, she was very

tall, very beautiful, and her dar hair was cut very
short. She was inches taller than the Egyptian soldier on
guard-duty and his eyes kept looking at her breasts, for
despite the shapeless Muslim robes she wore it was
obvious that she had a striking figure.

The soldier had finished checking her photo-ID card and

as he handed it back to her, Olivia smiled at the man,
then walked gracefully across the courtyard towards the
tall red-brick building where Omar Jabril's intelligence
Unit had their offices. As she moved away a second,
younger, soldier came out of the guard-hut and watched
her go.

'Look at the action on that!' the young one said. For

although the long Muslim robes covered the black girl
from throat to toe, they could not hide the fact that she
was very tall, very attractive, and moved with the sleek
effortless agility of a panther.

The older soldier slapped the back of the younger one's

head. 'She's out of your league, boy. She works for that
Intelligence outfit who've taken over the top two floors
of "D" Block.'

'She probably does Karate and stuff like that,' the young
man said.

'How would you know?' the older man demanded.

'Thunderball.'

'What?' The older soldier asked impatiently.

'James Bond 007,' the young soldier explained. 'The Bond

movie that's currently showing at the movie-theater in
Tahrir Square is called "Thunderball". The female spies
in that are drop-dead gorgeous. And more dangerous than
the men.'

'Is that right?' The older soldier asked. Then he slapped

the back of the young one's head again.

---oooOooo---

Olivia drew more approving glances as she strode through

the building that was known as 'D' Block. Climbing the
stairs in the center of the building, she went up to the
top floor and walked along the corridor to Jabril's suite
of offices. The door was locked, which meant he wasn't in
yet.

Using her key to open the door of the outer-office, she

moved inside, switched-on the lights and took off her
long Muslim robes. They were the same robes that she'd
worn ten days ago when she'd met the British spy, Robert
Waylon Fordyce, on board the forty-foot cabin-cruiser
Tangier at the port of Marsa Matruh.

Poor Mr Fordyce, Olivia thought. She opened today's Cairo

Times newspaper on her desk and flicked through it to
Page 17. The single-paragraph story towards the bottom of
the page read as follows:

TOURIST DIES IN FIERY BOAT CRASH

Marsa Matruh. Monday, May 12, 1969.

Fishermen made a grim discovery last week when they found
human remains in the burned-out wreckage of the forty-
foot cabin-cruiser Tangier, which had crashed on Zuweid
Reef, four miles offshore from Marsa Matruh. Having been
burned and partly-devoured by saltwater crocodiles, the
remains could not at first be identified. But dental
records from England have now confirmed that the remains
are those of Robert Waylon Fordyce, 41, of London,
England, who went missing from Marsa Matruh on May 3. The
boat Tangier was reported stolen at about the same time
and as Mr Fordyce was alone in the boat when it crashed
on the reef and exploded, Police are treating the
incident as a case of Boat Theft and Death By
Misadventure. The Marsa Matryh Police have issued a
statement reminding tourists and local people that in
Egypt it is illegal to consume alcohol on boats.

All of this had been noted by Russia's spy-agency which,

during the Communist era in the 1930s, had five million
innocent Russians locked-up in the slave-labor camps of
Siberia and the Arctic. In the gold-mines of Kolyma in
the Arctic the prisoners either froze, or died during
cave-ins, for there were no 'industrial safety'
protections for prisoners being used as slave-labor. In
the radium mines of Siberia some died horribly after
breathing-in radioactive dust, while others starved. In
timber-loggings operations like the Dalstroy-7 camp, many
prisoners died from a combination of vitamin-deficiency,
disease and over-work.

But at Mamlin-3 camp in Siberia, about twenty thousand

prisoners died in ghastly experiments conducted by the
mad-doctors of the NKVD, the Russian spy-agency which was
later renamed the KGB. Some had anti-freeze injected into
their veins, others woke up on operating tables to find
their arms and legs had been removed, some were thrown
into freezing water to see how long it would take for
them to die.

Advanced sexual techniques are practised all around the

world, from the sexual tricks of the Voodoo Priestesses
of Africa, to the seductive wiles of the Ouled Nails
women of Morocco, to the belly-dancers of the Middle
East. The Nautch dancing-girls of India use knowledge of
the body's nerve-centers, along with Yoga and Tantric
practices, to great effect. Amazing results are achieved
by the Japanese ladies who practise Fukitomi-cho with
technical precision. In China the practitioners of Fang
Chung will arouse a man while denying him intercourse,
for lengths of time that amount to a refined form of
torture. By touching a man in a certain way, in exactly
the right place, they can 'switch off' his orgasm, yet
keep him sexually-aroused and with an erection.

If any of the above techniques are used on a male who is

elderly or has underlying medical conditions, or if the
techniques are used with malicious intent, a stroke or
heart-attack can lead to physical disability, paralysis,
blindness, brain-damage, insanity, coma, or death.

Mamlin-3 camp

Some of these experiments analyzed the world's advanced

sexual techniques for their usefulness in espionage, and
for their potential to kill and disable. When combined
with knowledge of the human body's nerve-centers, as
taught by the masters of Chakri, Karate and Acupuncture,
the Russian mad-doctors came up with new ways to kill and
torture people. Known as Naked Killing and Naked Torture,
these methods would be taught to Russian spies, along
with those advanced sexual techniques which were judged
to be most useful.

---oooOooo---

Tuesday, August 10, 1937.

Mamlin-3 slave-labor camp, Siberia.

Dave was a United States Citizen who had been taken to

Soviet Russia by his parents in 1930, when he was
fourteen years old. During the Great Depression that had
started in 1929, jobs were impossible to find in America,
so Dave's parents had borrowed money from their parents
to buy tickets for themselves and Dave on a ship sailing
to Paris, France. From Paris the American family had
caught the train to Moscow, where they were welcomed by
the communist Soviet Union and initially housed in a New
Arrivals Dormitory.

The whole famiy spent three months learning how to speak

Russian, then Dave went to High School, which was free in
the Soviet Union. His parents both got jobs in Moscow
factories and the family moved into an apartment in
Prechistenka Street. They repaid the money they'd
borrowed to travel to Soviet Russia and everything seemed
fine. Then one night in May 1936 the whole family were
dragged away by the NKVD on suspicion of being Type 58
criminals: subversives working for a foreign country. In
fact one of their neighbors in Moscow had made false
reports about the family, because he wanted their
apartment.

Dave's father had fought back when the NKVD thugs were
beating him, so they'd kicked him to death. Dave's mother
had lost her mind when she found out, which in a way was
a good thing, because the Mental Hospital was infinitely
better than being sent to a Siberian slave-labor camp.
Dave had been found guilty of being a Type 58 criminal
and was given ten years in Siberia at Mamlin-3 camp. He
hoped his sweet gentle mother never recovered her sanity,
because he doubted if she would even survive the train
trip to Siberia. In the impossibly-overcrowded cattle-
cars where you stood for the entire journey, many died of
thirst in summer, and froze in winter.

Dave had been transported to Siberia in November 1936,

which was winter in the harsh Russian climate, and it was
a trip that he would never forget. From Moscow the
prison-transport train had traveled more than 2000 miles
east across Russia and Siberia, carrying Dave and about
two thousand other prisoners, all wearing thin beige
pajamas in temperatures that were well below freezing.
Dave remembered how several people froze to death each
night in the train's unheated cattle-cars and would be
found the next morning still standing upright. There was
no space for the dead to fall over, and eventually their
frozen bodies got glued to the wall of the cattle-car by
ice. The guards threw the corpses out and left them to
rot by the side of the tracks, and the train continued on
it's way. After three days of a stop-start journey the
train had turned off the Trans-Siberian rail, line onto a
spur-line which serviced four slave-labor camps,
including Mamlin-3 where Dave was assigned.

That train-trip had taken place in November 1936 and Dave

had spent the last nine months at the Mamlin-3 camp
working as a tree-cutter, for which he received rations
that were just enough for him to avoid starvation. It was
now August 1937 and after the usual morning roll-call, a
guard approached Dave and said he had good news for him.
As they walked to the headquarters building the guard
said that because Dave's twenty-first birthday had been
the previous week, someone in Moscow had reviewed his
case-file and discovered a serious mistake in the case
against Dave and his parents. The matter would soon be
corrected and Dave would be out of here within a week.

Dave's spirits lifted as he was taken to a canteen and

given the first meal he'd had in three days: blood-red
borsht soup and black bread, followed by chicken-cutlets.
When he'd finished eating there was tea to drink, then
the guard took him to his room. Room 9 was like all the
other rooms here in the headquarters building: a small
self-contained suite with a living-room, bedroom and
toilet/bathroom. The guard told Dave he would be locked
in at night, but could move around the building during
the day. He was not to go outside. The guard left and
Dave was sitting on the couch in the living-room thanking
his lucky stars for this fortuitous turn of events.

On the living-room wall opposite him, a large mirror was

stuck to the wall, but in reality it was a one-way
mirror. From Dave's side it looked like a normal mirror,
but in the darkened room on the other side it was a
window looking straight into Dave's room, and a motion-
picture camera was slowly turning, recording everything
that happened in Room 9, while hidden microphones caught
every sound that was made.

A bearded NKVD doctor watched the young American man

named Dave through the one-way mirror, then nodded to the
female NKVD agent beside him. She left by a door that
opened onto a side corridor around the corner from Room
9, and she was there in less than a minute.

Through the open door of his room, Dave saw the girl out
in the corridor. Her short-sleeved blue dress was rather
tight and short, highlighting her superb figure and long
suntanned legs. Shoulder-length blonde hair framed her
pretty suntanned face and she was smiling as she came to
the open door of Dave's room. The conversation was in
Russian, of course.

'My name's Anya,' she said. 'I'm next door in Room 11 and
I've run out of tea. Can you spare some?'

Dave smiled back, for this seemed to be his lucky day.

'Yes, of course,' he said, 'but if you come in I'll make
you a cup of tea. I was just about to make myself one.
I'm Dave, by the way.'

He moved aside from the door and as the girl entered his
room she stumbled on her high-heels, and he took her arm
to steady her.

'These damned shoes,' she said. Just inside the door of

his room was a low coffee-table and as she lifted a high-
heeled foot up onto it and bent down to examine the heel
of her shoe, her short dress slid up and Dave saw that
beneath it she was naked.

Anya glanced up and saw the look on the young man's face
as he stood there staring at her. The hunger in his eyes
was understandable, for since his arrest twelve months
ago he hadn't had any sex. 'Come here, will you?' Anya
said. 'The heel of my shoe refuses to go back into place,
but perhaps it needs a man's strength.' He got down on
one knee, grabbed her shoe with one hand and was able to
force the heel back in with his other hand.

The girl took her foot down from the coffee-table and
walked on it. 'That's marvellous. Thank you.' Coming to
Dave, she slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him
full on the mouth. As her long dexterous tongue flicked
around delicately inside his mouth, Dave's rigid tongue
thrust in between her lips, through her mouth and seemed
to go halfway down her throat. The kiss lasted a long
time, and by the end of it Dave had a hard-on.

Anya slipped her hand down inside the front of his pants
and did something that made him yell. She did something
else and he thought he was going to come, but she touched
him in a certain way between his anus and urethra, and
his near-orgasm vanished. She stepped back away from him
and the young American man stood there looking totally
stunned, still with an erection pushing-out the front of
his pants.

The Russian girl opened the buttons at the top of her

dress, revealing that she wasn't wearing a bra. Unlike
her legs, arms and face, her breasts were not suntanned
and as Dave eyed the rounded in-swelling cleavage between
her firm melon-breasts, his stiff penis began to throb.
Reaching a hand inside her dress, Anya smiled and started
fondling one of her nipples.

'Get undressed.' She told Dave and he hurried to comply.

In fact, he basically ripped his clothes off. The girl

had taken her dress off and they were both naked as he
followed her into the bedroom. In here there was another
big mirror on the wall that was a one-mirror with a
motion-picture camera filming everything that happened in
the room, while hidden microphones would supply the
sound-track. At the bed she turned to face him and
started fingering her clitoris and moaning. Naked and
with an erection, Dave moved towards the blonde Russian
girl, intending to stick his rigid prick into her vagina,
but at the last moment she dropped to her knees and took
him into her mouth. Her hands did things to his balls
that made him shout out loud in English, then she slid
one of her fingers up his ass.

The young American man's knees went weak and Anya eased
him down onto his back on the bed. She joined him there,
went to work on his ass, balls and cock again. She soon
had him gasping, grunting and groaning, and occasionally
crying out, as he writhed around helpless on the bed.
Every time he was about to climax she touched him in that
special way between his anus and urethra, and his orgasm
simply disappearded.

Thirty minutes of it would have given Dave a heart-attack

if he'd had a weak heart, but unfortunately for him, he
didn't. After a hour he was shrieking constantly and
continued thrashing around on the bed, and occasionally
his entire body would spasm and his wild staring eyes
would bulge so large that they looked like they were
about to jump right out of his head. But still, Anya
didn't let him come.

After two hours of it Dave was babbling like a crazy man,

calling her a witch, cursing God, shouting at the Sky,
and threatening to murder the Sun.

Anya's hands continued working on the young American man

and after three hours he was shouting that only women
with red cunts needed to keep their Cloak-Room epaulettes
because the fingers of pea-soup were entwined deep in the
Old Man's beard, hence the need for a stampede of steel
spider to drown the Man In The Moon. Suddenly Dave
stopped as something went 'pop' deep inside his head and
as his entire body stiffened and became paralyzed, blood
flowed into his right ear, making it turn red and swell
up to twice it's normal size. In one of his eyes the
pupil had shrunk to a tiny black dot, while in the other
eye the pupil became so large that it's blackness
flooded-out to make the entire iris turn black.

The girl's hands kept pleasuring him and denying him an

orgasm and after four hours of it, the hotness of his
blood and the extremely high blood-pressure were causing
the man's brain to 'stew'. As the cells of the brain
slowly 'cooked' the brain began to expand and it was soon
pressing against the inside of the skull. Colors that
Dave had never seen before filled his vision, as though
someone was letting-off fireworks inside his head. At
this point he became permanently-blind but didn't know it
because he could 'see' the bright colors exploding inside
his head. In fact, what he was seeing was caused by his
swollen brain pressing on the optic nerves at the back of
the eye-balls.

The girl kept him stimulated and didn't allow him to

climax for nine hours, and Dave's entire body grew as
stiff and hard as a piece of concrete. After making a
long drawn-out keening noise that was surprisingly high-
pitched, she stopped making and noise and as he was now
paralyzed, he could no longer writhe around either. In
his mind the fireworks had been replaced by a white light
and it was so beautiful he wanted to come, then die.
Something went 'pop' in his groin and Dave's erection
swelled-up to twice it's usual thickness and much longer
than normal.

Inside his head, there was another 'pop' and one of his
eyes filled with blood. Most of him now felt like a
gigantic phallus of flesh that was glowing white-hot.
Dave knew that after he came, he would die, but he wanted
to come anyway. The blonde Russian girl wouldn't allow
him to come, even though her hands kept exciting him, and
eventually the energy of orgasm found another outlet. As
something exploded in the small of his back his paralyzed
body suddenly began writhing again and he got his voice
back. Rather than activating his penis, the energy of
orgasm travelled up his spine, struck his brain, and made
the young man scream as all the snot in his head erupted
out of his nose. The was so much of it, it was
unbelievable, and because something else had 'popped'
deep inside his head, there was a lot of blood mixed in
with it. The force of this 'mind-gasm' was so great that
Dave's swollen brain pushed his eyes out of their sockets
and they hung by the thick white optic-nerves halfway
down his cheeks.

Needless to say, the young American man didn't look too

good, but it didn't matter. He was now dead.

---oooOooo---
'I was working as a dancer in sunny Armenia when the NKVD
arrested everyone in the bar,' she lied. 'So I've been
stuck with the high-heels and the dress ever since.'

'Are you American?' Anya asked, her eyes going big and
round. 'Your Russian has a slight accent.'

'I was born in America,' Dave nodded.

'How interesting!' she exclaimed.

As Dave sat in the armchair, Anya sat on the armrest to

his left, snuggled up against him and put her arm around
his neck. 'Tell me about America.'

'I was only a kid when I lived there,' he said. 'All I

remember is that a few people were very rich, and most
everyone else was really poor.'

'They have nice girls there?' Anya was aged eighteen or

twenty, the same age as Dave, and she had a superb
figure. Blonde and suntanned, she was almost as tall as
he was.

'Not as nice as you.'

Sitting up straight on the armrest, she leaned down, put

both

Anya was smiling now. As she lounged on the armrest of

the chair her dress had slid up and Dave saw she had
fantastic legs. Her black stockings were held up by
suspender-belts which clipped onto a black garter-belt
that encircled her slim thigh. Seeing his interest, she
moved to sit sideways on the armrest, with her lovely
long legs stretching across him to the armrest on the
other side of the chair.

'Anya knows a game that you will like.' Unclipping one of

her suspender-belts, she took it off and dangled in front
of Dave's face. 'Now you have to take something off.'

Smiling at her, he reached down and took off one of his

shoes.
'Okay.' She removed another suspender-belt.

Ten minutes later his two shoes, two socks, shirt and
pants were gone, and he sat in the armchair in his
underpants. Anya had lost all four of her suspender-
belts, and both of her stockings.

Dave's underpants were inflated by his erection and he

had an intense, set, look on his face as he watched the
blonde Russian girl take off one of the black garter-
belts that encircled her slim suntanned thigh. After
taking off the garter-belt, she slipped it over the young
American man's head and pulled it down around his neck.

'Your turn to take something off.' Anya gave the crowing

little laugh that a woman makes when she gets a man hard
and knows that she's going to have him.

Dave moved to get up from the armchair, so he could take

off his underpants, but the blonde girl placed her hand
on his chest and stopped him.

'No,' Anya said solemnly. 'You are King Dick . . .'

Dave laughed out loud.

'You are King Dick,' Anya repeated. 'You must remain

sitting there on your armchair-Throne. You must lounge
about like a King. Don't go anywhere. I'll be right
back.'

She got up from the armrest, padded into the kitchen and
reappeared a moment later holding a knife. 'Do you trust
me with this?' she asked him.

He nodded and she reached down and used the knife to

slice through his underpants. They fell away and the
blonde girl stared at his long stiff penis like it was a
God. Pivoting at the hips, she suddenly turned and threw
the knife across the room. There was a loud thud as the
knife hit a wooden doorframe and remained there, the
handle quivering for a few moments, with half an inch of
the blade buried in the woodwork.

'You see?' Anya came to stand right in front of where he

was sitting in the armchair. 'You think I'm a nice girl,
but I'm really a killer.'

'Is that so?' Dave watched her reach up under her dress,
grab her panties and pulled them down over her hips. He
watched her panties, which were white in color, slide
down her long slim legs to her around her high-heeled
feet.

'Yes, I'm really quite dangerous.' She stepped out of the

panties then pulled her arms up through the sleeves of
her dress.

'Really?' Dave watched the blonde Russian girl wriggling

around inside her dress for a while. Then she stuck her
arms back into the long sleeves of her dress and when her
hands appeared at the ends of the sleeves, her left hand
was holding her bra.

'I'm a trained assassin,' Anya threw her bra at the young

American, who caught it. He sat in the armchair, naked
and with an erection, smiling at her. 'And now I've told
you so much, after I fuck you, I'll have to kill you.'

'Come to King Dick,' he said.

She came to sit astride his thighs facing toward him and
as her dress rode up halfway to her neck, Dave eyed the
blonde pussy between her sleek rounded suntanned thighs.
Anya unbuttoned the dress slowly and teasingly, loving
the power that she had over the young man, revelling in
the desire that she could in his eyes. He still had her
garter-belt around his neck, where she had hung it, and
he seemed to have forgotten about Svetlana. She was in
the kitchen doorway behind Dave, watching everything. As
Anya's dress fell open down the front Dave was surprised
by how big Anya's breasts were. She took off the dress,
tossed it away, and now she was as naked as the young
American man.

Sliding up his thighs to be nearer to him, she grasped

hold of his ears and pulled his face down to bury it in
between her breasts. Unseen by Dave, Anya made a sign
with her hand to Svetlana, who shrugged and made a sign
back. Svetlana withdrew into the kitchen as Anya's hands
moved to the places where the young American man lived.

As her well-trained suntanned hands began to manipulate

Dave's naked body in ways that he'd never heard of and
never would have thought possible, he started making a
lot of noise. They were the gasps, cries, grunts, shouts,
groans and occasional screams that a man makes when a
woman with advanced sexual training is making love to
him. Interestingly, they were exactly the same noises
that a man makes when he's being subjected to Naked
Torture techniques of the kind developed by the Russian
NKVD.
As an agent of the NKVD, the forerunner of the KGB, the
Russian girl Anya REALLY WAS an extremely dangerous young
woman, trained in Martial Arts, Naked Torture, Naked
Killing and advanced sexual techniques. Everything she'd
told the young man Dave was true, including the fact that
when she'd finished with him, she would have to kill him.

---oooOooo---

Saturday, July 25, 1936.

Mamlin-3 slave-labor camp, Siberia, Soviet Union.

Dvor's spirit soared as he was taken to a canteen and

given the first meal he'd had in three days: blood-red
borsht soup and black bread, followed by chicken-cutlets.
When he'd finished eating there was tea to drink, then
the guard took him to his room. Room 4 was like all the
other rooms here in the headquarters building: a small
self-contained suite with a sitting room, bedroom and
toilet/bathroom. The guard told Dvor he would locked in
at night, but could move around the building during the
day. He was not to go outside. The guard left him and
Dvor was sitting on the couch when there was knock at his
door. He opened it and found a blonde girl standing there
smiling at him.

'Hello neighbor,' she said. 'I'm Anya from Room 3. I've

run out of tea, and I wondered if you might allow me to
come in and steal some of yours.'

'Good-looking women are always welcome to come in and

steal whatever they like,' Dvor smiled. He stepped aside
from his door to let her in.

'If you're going to flatter me and let me take whatever I

want,' she grinned, 'I will have to come again.' A tanned
appealing teenager, she was aged eighteen or nineteen,
and as she brushed past him he realized she was tall,
taller than him in her high-heels.

'I'd like to see you come again,' Dvor told her. Her
flower-patterned dress was a tight fit and he could see
she had a terrific figure.

'Well aren't YOU the cunning linguist?' Anya retorted.

'That was a mouthful, wasn't it?' Dvor laughed.

Anya came to stand right in front of him. 'I've had

bigger.' She looked down at the front of his pants and
tried to visualize his cock curled up in there: small,
soft, and sleeping. Seeing the blonde girl stand there
eyeing his cock excited the young man, natch, and he felt
a stirring in his loins. Suddenly, he had nothing to say.

'No matter the size of the mouthful, I always get my

tongue around it in the end,' Anya smiled as she
continued watching his pants. In her mind she imagined
Dvor's cock waking from it's sleep: stretching and
straightening as the hot blood began to flow through it.

'You've gone very quiet.' Moving her hand between his

legs she delivered a short, sharp, tap to the tip of his
penis. Dvor grunted in surprise, then he grew an erection
that pushed out the front of his pants like a tent.

quite short, and he could see her suntanned legs were

long and slender.

They rapped loudly on the kitchen tiles as she stepped in

there, and he heard her rummaging in his cupboards. A
moment later he heard her filling the kettle with water
and setting it on the stove-top.

---oooOooo---

These methods were known as Silent Killing and Silent

Torture after it was noticed that the.

From the NKVD's point of view the beauty of these methods

was that, when carried out by an expert, both Naked
Torture and Naked Killing left no visible marks on the
outside of the victim's body. So the authorities would
tend to treat such deaths as accidents, rather than
murders.

---oooOooo---

Six hours after first meeting the British spy Fordyce,

the big black girl Olivia was still with him, and they
were still on the forty-foot cabin-cruiser Tangier. But
the Tangier was no longer tied-up to Pier 9 in Marsa
Matruh port.

After Olivia had used various Karate-holds to immmobilize

Fordyce at 8.00 PM, the three male trainees Yusuf,
Hussein and Kamil, had emerged from the boat's forward
sleeping berth. They'd been hiding there, ready to
provide back-up if the girl needed it. She didn't, so the
guys had gone up on deck and readied the boat for it's
journey out to sea.

The Egyptian Intelligence officer Ali came out of his

hiding-spot in the engine-room, came down into the cabin
and looked curiously at the white Englishman who lay
unconscious on the floor of the cabin. Ali wasn't even
supposed to be here, but had decided to tag along at the
last minute.

'Are you okay?' he asked her.

'Fine,' Olivia smiled. Men have so many useful features,

she thought. Penises. Testicles. And sentimentality.

'I'll leave you to it, then.' Ali left the cabin and went
up on deck. When Jabril found out that he'd come on this
boat-trip, Ali knew he'd be in trouble, but he didn't
care. Ali and Jabril had been in the Egyptian Army
together during the Six Day War, had transfered to
Intelligence at the same time. Jabril would yell and
curse and be angry with him, then five minutes later he'd
have forgotten about it.

Up on deck Hussein and Kamil were at the cabin-cruiser's

fore and aft mooring lines when Yusuf started the
engines. The guys cast-off then stepped back on board,
and Yusuf steered away from Pier 9 and began to pick his
way through the vessels at anchor in Marsa Matruh port,
then headed out into the Mediterranean Sea. The Tangier's
twin Volvo engines gave her a good turn of speed, and by
9.00 PM they were far out to sea. Yusuf killed the
engines, Kamil dropped the anchor, and they rode gently
up and down on the light swell.

A few minutes later Fordyce started groaning down in the

cabin and Ali stared wildly at Yusuf. 'What's that?'

'Didn't you know?' Yusuf produced headphones, slipped

them onto his head and over his ears. 'Olivia is going to
interrogate the Englishman.' Yusuf clicked a button and
loud rock music came blaring out of his headphones.

Ali could now hear Fordyce grunting and gasping in a very

sexual way, then he started calling out in English: 'Oh
Jesus! Oh Christ!'

When Ali looked around, all three of the young male

trainees were wearing the headphones, and the raucous
vocals of Ozzy Osbourne were blaring out in time to the
screeching guitars and thudding drums of Deep Purple.

In the cabin below, it sounded like Fordyce was going

completely wild and Ali couldn't stand to listen to it.
At first he'd thought the Englishman was having sex with
Olivia, but now he wasn't sure. The British spy was
either being tortured, or having some kind of advanced
sex stuff done to him. When Fordyce started screaming,
Ali thought he was going to go insane if he had to listen
to any more of it.

Walling up to Yusuf, Ali lifted one of the headphones off

the young guy's ear and shouted: 'Do you have any more
headphones?'

Yusuf nodded, went into the boat's wheelhouse, found a

spare set of headphones and switched them on. He gave
them to Ali, who put them on and breathed out a sigh of
relief. Ali hated Deep Purple, but anything was better
than listening to what was going on down in the cabin. He
went to the back of the boat and sat on the deck with his
legs dangling over the edge, staring out into the night
and the Mediterranean Sea.

---oooOooo---

After an hour of whatever Olivia was doing to him Fordyce

had started shrieking long and loud, and continuously.

After two hours he was babbling like a crazy man, calling

the big black girl a witch, cursing God, threatening the
Sky, and telling the Night that only women with red hair
needed to keep their Cloak-Room epaulettes because the
fingers of evil were in the Old Man's mustache, hence the
need to spitfire the last pockets of resistance before
the curtain fell at Trafalgar Square.

After three hours, as Midnight came and went, and the

world entered the new day of September 14, 1969, Fordyce
alternated between sobbing, yelling and foaming at the
mouth. At this stage, if he'd had a bad heart, he would
have dropped dead, but unfortunately for Fordyce his
heart was strong.

After four hours the Englishman was still foaming at the

mouth, but much less than before. Mostly he just lay
there staring up at the cabin ceiling and gasping a lot.

After five hours he was catatonic and would have passed

out, but Olivia had ways to prevent that from happening.
One way made him scream. The other way caused him to
start yodelling.

After six hours of whatever the big black girl was doing
to him, the British spy 'broke'. He started talking and
Olivia switched on the tape-recorder that would capture
every word. It was incoherent: just a jumble of facts,
but she was sure a lot of it would be useful. Ciphers,
cross-eyed lions, cocktails at eight,the name of a female
teacher Fordyce fucked when he was sixteen, recognition
codes, his mother's maiden name, the Austin Seven, Mars
Bars, addresses of 'safe houses', Marble Arch, the
Northern Cheyenne people, 75933670324, Spam, the real
indentities of Egyptians who provided support to British
secret-agents, the bakery where Fordyce bought fruit-
cakes, the names of journalists who were friendly to
Britain, The Piano Bar, Jimmy Tallow the bully who
Fordyce had bashed, the name of a KGB agent Fordyce had
'turned' in Prague, cold milk, the smell of freshly-cut
grass, Lambeth, the barmaid at the Rose and Crown,
seagulls, 7 of Diamonds.

'I came to kill him, but your sorcery is more powerful,'

Fordyce stared at Olivia, 'if you fuck me then I can go
to Heaven in a box not made of wood, and die happy.'

'Who did you come here to kill?' Olivia asked gently.

'You have lots of mangu, it activates the ngwa. Mboli is

very pleased with you.' He started rambling again.

'If you tell me who you were going to kill, I promise

I'll let you come inside me.'

'Nasser.'

The black girl was stunned. 'The former President of

Egypt?' she asked.

The Englishman nodded. 'All I had to do was radio in his

location and they'd send in a jet to blow it up.'

'But Nasser isn't President any more,' she told him. 'Why
kill him?'

Fordyce let out a roar, then he calmed down. 'They're

going to make him President again.' He stared at her.
'You promised.'

'Yes I did,' Olivia nodded. In this situation, where she

had all the power and the white Englishman was helpless,
it would be very bad for her Shadow Spirit if she was to
break a promise to him.

She unzipped the gray jumpsuit she was wearing and

wriggled out of it with a dancer's motion, then took off
her panties and bra. Fordyce was already naked so all she
had to do was kneel astride his lap, fondle his penis
until it slowly stiffened, then pop it inside her vagina.
The deranged British spy came almost immediately and
during his orgasm he made a loud bellowing sound that
more animal than human. Then he collapsed and Olivia
thought he might be dead, but when she checked his pulse,
he was still alive.

She stood up, went into the boat's bathroom and washed in
a handbasin of water rather than the shower, so as to
conserve water. The interrogation of Fordyce could last a
week or more, and they would be stuck here on the boat
for all of that time. After toweling-off she put on the
gray jumpsuit, lay down on a couch in the cabin and slept
for a few hours.

A few hours later, at 7.00 AM, the tall beautiful black

girl left the cabin, went up to the boat's wheelhouse and
sat in front of the two-way High Frequency radio. She
turned the knob to the pre-arranged radio channel,
pressed the TRANSMIT button on the microphone and spoke
into the microphone.

'
and before long Egyptian Intelligence came on the air.
Call-signs and recognition phrases were exchanged, they
all switched to Scrambler, and then Captain Omar Jabril's
harsh rasping voice came through clearly, just a little
'tinny' because of the effects of the scrambling and
unscrambling.

'How is the interrogation going?' Jabril asked.

As Anya turned towards him, she spotted a bowl of fruit

sitting on a table. Going over to it, she selected two
apples, found a knife and began carefully peeling them.
Intrigued, Dvor went over to see what she was doing. The
peeled apples looked like two white balls, sitting side
by side on the table. Anya peeled the banana, which was
very long, thick and straight. With the bottom of the
banana behind the apple-balls and the banana sticking up
into the air at an angle, the whole thing looked like a
stiff white penis and two big white balls.

The blonde girl bent down over it and Dvor moved around
to the other side of the table so he could see what she
was doing. Glancing up at him, she gave a little laugh,
and as she held the banana sticking up with one hand, the
fingertips of her other hand began to tickle and fondle
the apple-balls, and Dvor's balls tightened-up in
sympathy. Then her long pink tongue came flickering out
of her mouth and as she began to lick the apple-balls,
Dvor felt his own balls tightening-up.

Wearing an open-necked cream linen suit, Omar Jabril

stood on the pier at the peninsula thirty-seven miles
east of Marsa Matruh, watching the Zodiac inflatable

walked aboard the Tangier and went to the main cabin

below-decks. He emerged a few minutes later and walked
over to where the three trainees were standing. Yusuf and
Kamil were talking but stopped when Jabril approached.
Olivia was wearing a gray jumpsuit, but she was putting
long Muslim robes on over the top.

'You don't have to wear those things, you know,' Jabril

indicated the Muslim robes. 'Egypt is a Muslim country,
but everyone here is free to wear whatever they like.'

'When in Rome, Sir, . . .' Olivia smiled at him.

'. . . do as the Romans do.' Omar Jabril smiled back at

her. 'Olivia, thank you for what you did today.' Jabril
offered his hand and when the black girl shook it, she
could feel the sheer physical power in the man. Power
derived from the weight-lifting he did every day. As for
Jabril, he detected the hard calluses on the 'blade' of
her hand, which came from her ongoing Karate training.

Jabril also shook hands with Kamil and Yusuf.

'Sir, . . .' Olivia started to ask.

Jabril waggled his finger at her. 'We don't use "Sir", or

military titles in my Unit, Olivia. Neither do we salute
or wear uniforms, except when duty requires. We're
supposed to be civilians, and all the military customs
would give the game away. Please, all of you, call me
Omar.'

Jabril smiled at the four newly-minted Intelligence

officers. 'And now I suggest we walk to our accommodation
for the night. I've booked each of you into a cabin at
the local Camping Ground. It's only a five minute walk.'
He led them away from Marsa Matruh port, along the Coast
Road to the Camping Ground.

Olivia leapt to her feet and the look on her face was so
ferociously angry that the two guys actually stepped back
away from her. During their months in the KGB training
camp near Cairo, all the guys had learned to respect
Olivia. Strangely, nearly all the guys had slept with her
at one time of another, but none of them thought of her
as a 'whore'. And she certainly wasn't submissive. In
fact, having sex with the tall nineteen-year old black
girl was a bit like tangling with a bobcat: you would
have bites, bruises and claw-marks as mementoes of the
encounter. Olivia used her sexual favors to gain
influence with men, didn't deny this, and the guys just
accepted that it was 'her way'.

'If either of you ever rat on me, about this or anything

else, I'll tie you up in a mangrove swamp and leave you
to the crocodiles,' Olivia warned them. Then she calmed
down and changed the subject. 'Kamil, get cleaned up.'
Kamil nodded and went along to the boat's tiny bathroom.

As the nineteen year-old black girl led the way up the

steps to the upper-deck, Yusuf was struck by four things
about her.

The first thing was that she was only a couple of inches
shorter than him, and he was six foot two, so he guessed
Olivia must be six foot.

The second thing about Olivia was that, as she walked up

the steps in front of him, he couldn't take his eyes off
her butt. The close-fitting gray jumpsuit she wore
emphasized the smallness of her waist and the size of her
big firm rounded butt, which swayed rhythmically from
side to side as she went up the stairs.

The third thing about her was that she was a 'natural
leader' and Yusuf recalled how it had been obvious to
everyone from the very first day in the KGB spy-training
camp near Cairo. If the tall black girl was in the group,
pretty soon she would be giving the orders. Yusuf had
seen this before in his Egyptian Muslim family, where his
mother gave the orders and everyone, including his Dad,
did as they were told.

Chapter 3

Wednesday, May 28, 1969.

Cairo, Egypt.

At this time Libya was a monarchy ruled by King Idris the

First and being a moderate Muslim country, women had been
given the right to vote in 1963. As an admirer of the
West, King Idris had bought British four-wheel drive Land
Rovers for his Army and Police Force, but the vehicles
couldn't cope with Libya's hot climate and the engines
were constantly overheating.

This was the problem facing Police Sergeant Khalifa as he

patrolled the border with Egypt that afternoon. His
driver, Constable Ibrahim, had kept the speed down to a
sedate thirty miles per hour (50 kilometers per hour),
but despite this, the Land Rover's engine temperature had
climbed steadily. When they parked at the edge of this
track, clouds of steam had come pouring out from under
the hood.

Constable Ibrahim had the hood up now and was bent down
over the engine, trying to fix it, as Sergeant Khalifa
walked up and down, swatting flies and cursing in Arabic.
He stopped suddenly, straining to hear something. As the
loud metallic tapping noise got louder Khalifa realized
it was the sound made by a diesel engine and then, from
behind a nearby sand-dune, a vehicle appeared.

It was an International Scout car, with a diesel engine,

long-distance fuel tanks, extra-wide tires for driving on
sand, and a specially-enlarged radiator designed for hot
climates. It threw up clouds of dust as it approached
Sergeant Khalifa, and the car came to a stop just behind
the Libyan Police Land Rover.

Khalifa was astonished when an Arab woman climbed out

from behind the wheel of the Scout, for while Libya had
no laws forbidding women from driving, it was unheard-of
for a woman to do so. A second woman got out of the front
passenger's seat and he saw she was black.

The two women wore long black Muslim robes, but the robes
could not hide the fact that they they were tall, young
and attractive. As they came towards Khalifa he noted
that both girls moved with the sleek, lithe agility of
cheetahs that were on the prowl.

The black girl walked up to Sergeant Khalifa. 'You're not

far from the water-tank,' she said. Her Arabic was
perfect, but spoken with an accent that he'd never heard
before. From up close he could see her dark-brown face
was oval in shape and with high cheekbones, wide-set
brown eyes and a full mouth, she was very beautiful.

'Water-tank?' He looked surprised.

'Yes, Sergeant,' she pointed to a nearby sand-dune. 'Just

over there. Come, I will show you.' She turned and began
strolling towards the sand-dune, and Sergeant Khalifa
looked around at the broken-down Land Rover. The second
girl, who looked like an Arab, was talking to Constable
Ibrahim at the front of the Land Rover. Khalifa heard
them using the English word 'thermostat'.

Sergeant Khalifa had no idea what a 'thermostat' was, for

he knew very little about automobiles. He shrugged and
hurried after the black girl, who was still strolling
towards the nearby sand-dune.

'You say there is a water-tank here?' he asked, when he

caught up to her.

'Oh yes,' she turned her head towards him and smiled. 'An
American oil company sank a water-bore and built a big
concrete-tank to store the water they pump out of the
bore.'

'How did you learn of this?'

'When I was at the American University in Cairo, I met a

young man whose father worked for the oil company who
built it.'
As they moved behind the sand-dune the road behind them,
and the vehicles parked on it, had disappeared from view.
After walking for another few minutes the water-tank came
into view. It was large and made of concrete, just as the
black girl had said it would be.

There was a gray metal door in the side of the concrete

structure, a set of metal stairs leading up to it, and
after climbing the steps the girl pulled the door open
and turned to the Police Sergeant, who stood at the base
of the stairs looking up at her. 'Come on,' she smiled,
'it's lovely and cool in here.'

As Sergeant Khalifa climbed the steps and moved into the

doorway, the black girl gave a crazy little giggle and
shoved him hard in the back. He cried out as he was
propelled forward and landed with a splash in the water
that was stored inside the tank. The pool of water was
about twenty feet (6 meters) long, ten feet (three
meters) wide and ten feet deep. He was treading water,
but struggling to keep his head above water.

'You'll find it easier if you take your boots off,' the

black girl told him. 'But the best thing is to take
everything off.' He stared up at her and she gave that
crazy laugh again.

'If I take my clothes off, perhaps it will encourage you

to do the same.' As she stood in the doorway above him,
the black girl reached a hand inside the folds of her
long black Muslim robes and tugged at a fastening which
held the robes closed. As she worked her way down the
front of the robes they came open, and Sergeant Khalifa
saw that underneath she wore the white cotton breastcloth
and loincloth that was favored by most Arab women at this
time.

Shrugging off the long Muslim robes, she draped them over
a metal water pipe that emerged from the concrete wall
next to her. 'Now it's your turn to take something off.'

She watched the Libyan Policeman flailing around in the

water as he struggled to remove his boots and socks, and
when she reached her hand down he passed them up to her.
She placed the boots on the concrete floor beside her and
put his socks on the pipe with her robes.

Eyeing the Sergeant down in the water, the black girl

untied the white cotton breastcloth which encircled her
chest, and as it fell away her huge firm breasts swelled
out from her tall slim brown body. Sergeant Khalifa's
mouth went dry as he eyed her tits and, needing no more
encouragement, he pulled off his holster and gun, then
his Police-uniform shirt and pants, and passed everything
up to the girl. She draped the clothes over the water-
pipe, while the holster and gun went on the floor next to
his boots. His underpants were the last thing to come off
and the girl had given a titter of laughter as she took
them from the Policeman's outstretched hand. She was
right about treading water, Khalifa thought to himself,
it's so much easier when you're naked.

Gazing down at the naked man in the water, she took off
the white cotton loincloth that she wore around her hips
like a diaper. As Sergeant Khalifa eyed the black pussy
that lay nestled in between her sleek rounded brown
thighs, his penis went hard below the water. Although the
water prevented her from seeing his cock, from the rather
stunned expression on his face and by the way he was
staring at her naked brown body, she concluded that he
must have an erection.

'It's hard, isn't it?' she teased him. Then without any
warning she stepped off the concrete and fell onto the
Sergeant's shoulders, pushing him down under the water.
When he surfaced a few moments later the black girl's
thighs were clamped around his neck and her pussy was in
his face. Sergeant Khalifa's teeth nibbled at her
clitoris until the girl came, and the smell of her
vaginal juices made him go crazy. As he stuck his rigid
tongue into her vagina and began licking her out, she
squealed and climaxed again, and the Libyan went totally
berserk.

Sometime later, the black girl told him: 'The water is

shallower up the other end.'

Khalifa carried her up to the far end of the water-tank

and found that, as usual, she was right. The water here
only came up to his chest. He set the naked black girl
down on her feet and when he stuck his rigid penis up her
vagina she shrieked and moaned, and began having a series
of orgasms, one after another. The effect this had on the
muscles inside her was unbelievably stimulating for the
man's stiff penis, and when Khalifa climaxed it felt as
if his Seed had flowed all the way up from his toe-nails
before entering the base of his erection. As it rose up
through the long thick hardness of the man the sensation
was quite electrifying, and when the white-hot juice came
spurting from his stiff penis to fill the black girl's
vagina Sergeant Khalifa cried out loud and fainted with
the exhilaration of it.
 ---oooOooo---

When Sergeant Khalifa woke up he was out of the water but

still inside the water-tank, lying naked on the concrete
in front of the metal door, and he saw that his gun and
clothes were gone. There was no sign of the black girl or
her clothes, and he panicked when he realized she might
have locked him in the water-tank with no way for him to
get out.

But when he pushed on the metal door it opened easily

enough and he saw he must have been asleep for hours,
because it was now night-time. Feeling extremely foolish,
the Libyan Police Sergeant stepped out of the large
concrete water-tank, went down the metal stairs, and
walked naked around the sand-dune to where he'd last seen
the Police Land Rover parked. Thanks be to Allah, it was
still there, and when he looked in through the windows he
saw Constable Ibrahim lying naked on the back seat.

Of the International Scout car and the two young women

who had been driving it, there was no sign at all.
Sergeant Khalifa looked all around the Land Rover, but it
was clear that his gun and Police-uniform had been taken,
as had those of Constable Ibrahim. Khalifa opened the
door of the Land Rover and woke up the Constable, who
emerged from the Land Rover naked and looking extremely
embarrassed.

'The Egyptian girl screwed me, Sir. Now my Police uniform

and my gun are missing, so I'm guessing she took them
while I was asleep.' Constable Ibrahim looked very
despondent.

'The black girl did the same thing to me,' Khalifa

admitted.

'When Inspector Thumrait finds out, we're finished.'

Ibrahim covered his face with his hands. His young wife
was expecting their first child, and now he was going to
be unemployed.

'That's why we must ensure that the Inspector never finds

out,' Sergeant Khalifa said. 'I think there is a way that
we can survive this, but can you get the Land Rover
going?'

'I think so.' Constable Ibrahim went around to the front

of the vehicle and lifted the hood. Everything looked
okay in the engine-bay and as the engine had cooled over
the past few hours, he was able to remove the radiator-
cap.'

'We need water, Sir,' Ibrahim told the Sergeant. 'When

the engine boiled-over we lost a lot of water.'

'There is water just behind that sand-dune,' Sergeant

Khalifa told him. 'Do we have anything to carry water
in?'

They rummaged through the trunk of the Land Rover and

came up with a big bottle of Coca-Cola and a plastic one-
gallon container of engine-oil. After taking turns to
drink all of the Coca-Cola, Constable Ibrahim checked the
engine and made sure that it had plenty of oil. They
emptied the oil-container onto the sand, then took the
empty oil container and Coca-Cola bottle to the concrete
water-tank behind the sand-dune.

Sergeant Khalifa climbed the stairs up to the metal door

in the water-tank, opened it, and led the way in.
Constable Ibrahim jumped down into the water, took the
Coca-Cola bottle and the oil container, and plunged them
into the water to fill them. After putting the caps back
on, the two naked Policemen left the water-tank and began
walking back to their Land Rover.

As they walked, Ibrahim asked: 'Sir, did you screw the

black girl in that concrete water-tank?'

'Yes,' Khalifa told him. 'Where did you fuck the other
one?'

'On the back-seat of the Land Rover.' Ibrahim shook his

head. 'I love my wife and I know that she loves me, but
if she ever finds out what I've done . . .'

'But she won't, Hashem,' Sergeant Khalifa used the

Constable's given-name, something he didn't usually do,
for the young man needed to be reassured. 'If what
happened to you was anything like what happened to me,
then you were set-up by a whore who knew exactly what she
was doing. If a beautiful woman offers herself to a man
in such a way, how many guys would say no? What happened
is not on either of us. We were set-up by experts.'

'You think we can get out of this, Sir?'

Khalifa said honestly: 'We will need luck and the

Blessings of Allah. We will also need to steal and tell
many lies but, yes, I think that we can get out of this.
Are you with me, Hashem?'

'My wife is pregnant, Sir,' the young Constable said, 'so

I need this job more than ever. I will do whatever is
necessary.'

'Good man,' Sergeant Khalifa clapped him on the back.

Reaching the Land Rover, Constable Ibrahim poured the

water they had into the radiator, but it needed much more
water. It took two more trips to the concrete tank to
fill the radiator and as they walked, Sergeant Khalifa
explained what he had in mind to get them both out of
this mess.

'It could work, Sir,' The Constable nodded. 'But as you

say, we will need good luck and the Blessings of Allah.'

'Which in our line of work,' Police Sergeant Khalifa

smiled sadly, 'always come in useful. Prepare to move
out, while I fill the containers with water for our trip
home.' Making one last visit to the concrete water-tank,
he filled the Coca-Cola bottle and the oil container, put
the caps on both, then walked back to the Land Rover and
slid into the front passenger seat. Constable Ibrahim
started the engine, switched on the headlights, put the
Land Rover in gear and set off into the night.

---oooOooo---

This desert which was so hot by day, was always very cold
at night, and the Land Rover had no overheating problems
on the night-time journey back to the town of Al Jaghbub,
where the Policemen were based.

On the outskirts of town they stopped near an isolated

house and from a washing-line behind the house, Sergeant
Khalifa stole two white thobs, the long white garment
worn by men in the Middle East. Dressed in the thobs, the
two Policemen drove into Al Jaghbub and parked down the
street from Khalifa's home. Sergeant Khalifa had been
living alone since his wide died two years ago, and no-
one saw him force open a window (his house-keys had been
in his pants that the black girl had stolen) and break
into his own house. Five minutes late he came out with a
large canvas bag which contained two of his spare Police
uniforms, plus an unregistered Colt .38 Police Special,
which was identical to the guns carried by members of the
Royal Libyan Police. Khalifa gave the Colt .38 to
Constable Ibrahim, to take the place of the gun which the
Egyptian girl had stolen from him.

They drove behind a sand-dune just out of town and

changed into Khalifa's spare uniforms, then Sergeant
Khalifa got behind the wheel of the Land Rover and
dropped Ibrahim off near his house. Khalifa's uniform was
too big for Constable Ibrahim but at least Ibrahim went
home in a Police uniform, and in the darkness it was
extremely unlikely that any of his neighbors would notice
what a poor-fitting uniform he was wearing. His pregnant
wife would already be in bed, and with any luck she
wouldn't see him in the over-sized uniform. Constable
Ibrahim had spare uniforms in his house, and tomorrow he
would report for duty wearing one of them.

After dropping off Ibrahim, Sergeant Khalifa went to see

a man called Hank The Yank, a former American spy who had
turned renegade and now supplied illegal firearms and
explosives to the criminal underworld. The time was now
well after Midnight and Hank answered Khalifa's knock in
his dressing gown. He grumbled as he unlocked the
security gate of his apartemnt and let the Libyan
Policeman in.

'Do you know what time it is?' Hank The Yank demanded.

'It's a life and death situation, Hank.' Khalifa told him

a doctored version of what had happened that day, but
left Constable Ibrahim out of it. 'I need a .38 Colt
Police Special, and I need it right now. You'll have the
money by tomorrow afternoon.'

'Couldn't you tell your boss that you were visiting Mount
Vesuvius, met a lady with big hooters, tried to impress
her with the size of your gun, and in the excitement you
dropped it into the volcano?'

'Come on Hank, you must have a few .38 Colt Police

Specials lying around. They're as common as camel-shit. I
only want one, and you'll get paid in cash tomorrow
afternoon. You know I'm good for the money.'

Hank provided Sergeant Khalifa with what he needed but

the bastard charged an exorbitant price, probably because
his sleep had been disturbed. Sergeant Khalifa left the
arms-dealer's apartment, climbed into the Police Land
Rover and drove it into the town-center of Al Jaghbub,
where he parked it in an alley.
A few blocks away, another alley led to the backyard of
the Laundry where he got his Police uniforms cleaned. The
Sergeant jumped the fence, forced a window open and
climbed in. He knew that Constable Ibrahim used this
place as well __ it was the only Laundry in town __ so if
the Laundry had a break-in and lots of clothes were
stolen and their customer records for the last week went
missing, both he and Ibrahim could claim their Police
uniforms had been here when the break-in occurred.

After doing what he had to do Sergeant Khalifa walked to

where the Police Land Rover was parked, got in and drove
to the isolated house on the outskirts of town, where a
few hours ago he'd stolen the two white thobs from the
clothes-line. Moving quietly into the backyard, he
returned the thobs to the clothes-line from where he'd
taken them, then he went back to the Land Rover and drove
away.

He felt as guilty as Hell for breaking into the Laundry,

stealing a lot of clothes and destroying their customer-
records, but as he sat behind a sand-dune in the desert
burning everything, he knew it was something that had
needed to be done. At lunchtime the next day Sergeant
Khalifa was at the bank withdrawing money to pay Hank The
Yank for the gun, and he withdrew an extra 100 Libyan
Pounds in cash, which he sealed in an envelope and
addressed to the Laundry.

At different times over the next week, both Sergeant

Khalifa and Constable Ibrahim submitted requests for
additional uniforms, stating that they'd lost a set of
clothes in the burglary at the Laundry.

---oooOooo---

After stealing the guns and clothes of the two Libyan

Policemen, the Egyptian girl and the black girl had
driven their International Scout car into the vast
uninhabited wasteland of the Libyan desert, using a
compass to keep parallel to the border with Egypt as they
headed south. The mission to obtain the Libyan Police
uniforms and the Libyan Police identity-cards that were
in the pockets of the men's pants, had been ordered by
someone in Moscow and the Soviet spy agency, the KGB, had
decided to send the Egyptian girl Layla and the black
girl Olivia, because they had both recently completed
their training at the secret KGB spy-camp in the Egyptian
desert. It was all very well to teach the recruits about
guns, explosives and sabotage, ciphers and clandestine
communications, Karate, Naked Killing and so on, but this
mission would be a good way to test their abilities in
the field, and to that end a 'surprise; was waiting for
the girls when they tried to cross the border back into
Egypt.

The Egyptian girl Layla was driving and she kept a close
eye on her mirrors, but in the light of late evening she
could see that no-one was following them. The desert sand
carried on the wind was erasing the tracks left by their
car almost immediately, and nobody in their right mind
would drive around out here unless they were spies like
Layla and Olivia. Or unless they were with the Libyan
Army or Police, who regularly patrolled the border with
Egypt. At this time, in May 1969, Egypt was very friendly
with the Soviet Union, while the Kingdom of Libya was
pro-Western. The Libyans knew the Russians had set up a
secret training-camp of some kind just over the border in
Egypt, for the Bedouins who occasionally visited the area
with their camels had seen it from a distance.

The Libyans had told the British and the Americans, but
when the British sent in a spy posing as a Geologist, the
man had gone missing. Later he was found dead in the
burned and mangled wreck of his car at the bottom of a
300-foot deep ravine in the Qattara Depression. As far as
the newspapers and the public were concerned it had been
a car-accident, but foul-play was suspected.

---oooOooo---

In the dream Olivia had traveled back in time three years

to 1966, when she was eighteen and living on the streets
of Harlem, as she had been for the previous two years.
She had doing WHATEVER she had to, with WHOEVER she had
to, in order to survive. Being Harlem, the guys she'd had
up to then were all black, and she'd wondered what it
would be like with a white guy.

One hot Summer night she was standing on a corner on

111th Street in East Harlem, her tiny waist and flat
brown belly bared by the skimpy white boob-tube that
stretched-tight over her big brown melon-boobs. A guy
driving an Oldsmobile had stopped by the kerb to stare at
her ass and superb long brown legs, which were all on
show her little denim hot-pants. Olivia was about to
wiggle over to the driver of the Oldsmobile and let her
charms work on him, when he'd taken off like the Hounds
of Hell were after him.
Then a black pimp called Crazy Joe had pulled up in his
canary-yellow Cadillac, and started ordering-around the
other black girls who were hanging around on the street-
corner. He started getting heavy with Olivia, saying she
would have to become one of his 'girls' or else he'd cut
her, and suddenly a passing taxi pulled-up right next to
where she was standing. The Gypsy-Cab's back side-window
was filly open so Olivia had dived through it and landed
upside-down in the back of the taxi, with her long brown
legs sticking out the window. The cabdriver took off out
of there at about ten times the speed-limit. The enraged
pimp had fired off a couple of wild shots with a handgun
but missed completely, and by the time the taxi reached
Franklin D Roosevelt Drive, Olivia had pulled her legs in
through the window and was sitting upright in the back
seat. When she looked through the taxi's back window she
had seen the pimp's canary-yellow Cadillac coming after
them at high speed.

'Don't worry, they ain't gonna catch us.' The cabdriver

laughed and when Olivia looked at him she saw he was a
white guy.

'What were YOU doing in Harlem?' she asked him.

'The United States is a Free Country,' he told her, 'I go

wherever I like.' He suddenly steered the taxi down an
alley at breakneck speed, and when Olivia saw the
railroad embankment ahead her heart sank because she
thought this would turn into a dead-end. And when that
Cadillac catches us up, she thought, it really will be a
dead-end, with the emphasis on DEAD.

But after driving parallel to the embankment for a short

distance they came to a point where the street and the
rail line were on the same level, and the driver turned,
mounted the kerb, and began driving ON THE RAILROAD
TRACK.

'This rail line was decommissioned in 1908,' the white

cabriver said, 'but that fool pimp don't know that.'

Their passage was incredibly-rough, bouncing from one

railway-tie to the next, but thankfully it didn't last
very long. In an area behind disused industrial buildings
the cabdriver suddenly slowed, went down the side of the
railroad embankment at an angle, then drove inside a
large round tunnel. There was that dank sewer-stench and
a maze of tunnels, but the white cabdriver seemed to know
where he was going. After twisting and turning between
different tunnels, they came out into a vacant lot that
was stuck between the backs of derelict red-brick silos
and a disused canal. The vacant lot was only accessible
by means of that maze of large round tunnels that the
white cabdriver had driven through, so if anyone tried to
follow them they'd probably get lost in there and die.

The vacant lot was covered in thick shrubs and, by

pushing through the wall of vegetation at EXACTLY the
right place, the cabdriver found the gap in the high
brick wall that he obviously knew was there. The soft
leaves of the shrubbery rubbed against the sides of the
taxi and they were now enclosed in their own private
green world. It was cool and safe in here, and the taxi
nosed cautiously through the dense but soft vegetation,
Olivia called to the cabdriver from the back seat.

'Hey man, you saved my life and I have to thank you the
only way I know how.'

When the white cabdriver looked in his rear-view mirror

he got a big shock when he saw that his passenger was now
sitting naked on the back seat.

'I got checked yesterday at the Clinic, and I don't have

any sexually-transmitted diseases,' she smiled. 'I mean
you were awesome back there, navigating your way through
all those tunnels.' The white cabdriver had stopped the
taxi and as he turned around to look over the back seat
at her, the naked black girl spead those crazy long legs
of hers wide apart, then used her fingers to open the
heavy lips of her vulva, showing him the soft moist
pinkness that lined the inside of her vagina.

'There's one more tunnel for you to explore man,' she

giggled, still holding her vagina open, 'and I just KNOW
you're gonna LOVE IT.'

And he HAD loved it, immensely, three times.

The first time his movements had been frenetic and all
too soon he'd come with a hot gush that seemed to fill
Olivia right up to her neck.

The second time his moves were more considered, less

wild, and then after a while he'd got that look on his
face of a man who knows he's about to fall over a cliff
but keeps going anyway, because he's a man, and stopping
just isn't a possibility. The white guy's had slowed as
he tried to delay the inevitable, then Olivia had lifted
one of her long lissom brown legs up to slip it over his
shoulder and this caused a lot of sliding and shifting
movements inside her vagina. The white man had given a
loud groan as the fire flowed from his testicles into his
long stiff penis and as it ascended up through him and
spurted out into the girl's vagina it felt so good that
he'd shouted something in Ukrainian and then passed-out.

With no idea how long he'd been 'out', the cabdriver woke
to find himself lying naked on his back, on the taxi's
back seat, with the black girl kneeling astride his lap.
Her beautiful brown face was looking down at him with a
very serious expression on it.

'Oh fuck!' the white cabdriver shouted. 'Fuck!!!' He'd

just discovered that, although his penis was soft, it was
inside the girl's vagina.

When he'd passed-out she'd gone to a lot of trouble to

keep him inside her, even though the unconscious man had
immediately gone soft. Now, as he lay on his back staring
up at her, he was experiencing the special thrill of
going hard when he was ALREADY in her pussy.

There was one other thing she'd done while he was asleep
and as his penis stiffened, lengthened and thickened
inside her, the white man was feeling it's effect,
although he had no way of knowing what was causing it.
Olivia had removed a lace from one of his shoes and tied
it round the base of his shaft and as the man swelled up
big in her pussy, the shoe-lace allowed blood to ENTER
his penis, but prevent any from LEAVING. It was like a
tourniquet and resulted in his erection growing much
larger than usual, which was making the white guy go
crazy because he felt like KING DICK. Strangely though,
his need to thrust was reduced because the erotic
sensations caused by the tourniquet on his cock were
stimulating him in a way he'd never imagined possible.

---oooOooo---

Wearing only her white bra and high-heeled shoes, she

took the high-backed wooden chair and reversed it, then
stood astride the seat and leaned forward to rest her
breasts on the top of the backrest, squeezed in between
her arms. As she lowered her ass down to the seat her
tits remained trapped on top of the backrest and the
uplift made her large brown breasts inflate even larger
in the white bra. As she took off the bra off, her brown
tits flopped out naked and immensely-swollen on top of
the backrest, with each breast capped by a big brown
nipple that pointed upwards. Fully captivated by the
black girl, the Egyptian man suckled on her breasts like
they held the Milk of The Goddess in some African Voodoo-
cult. This seemed to restore him and he was able to sit
down, naked and erect, on the wooden chair.

Chapter 2

THREE MONTHS BEFORE THE LIBYAN COUP.

Sunday, June 1, 1969.

Valletta, Malta.

Chapter 3

THREE WEEKS BEFORE THE LIBYAN COUP.

Monday, August 11, 1969.

Chapter 4

THREE DAYS BEFORE THE LIBYAN COUP.

Friday, August 29, 1969.