The Unjustly Punished Lady Lawyer

As a girl, I wanted to pursue an international career. My Dad was an airline pilot and took Mum and me on holidays to exotic places. I had a little of a romantic attachment to the Arab lands, which I found exotic and in recent years, quite modern, attractive, and increasingly sophisticated, offering a heady blend of East and West.

I did very well at school on the Arts side and at university where I studied Law with Arabic as a half unit. During my third year, I spent six months in Cairo, working in an airline office. I graduated with a good degree and joined a firm of commercial solicitors in the City. Keeping my Arabic, I studied the legal systems of the modern Arab world. An excellent opportunity for me arose in one of the Gulf nations.

Eventually, I joined a law firm in one of the rapidly developing but (I thought at the time) relatively liberal Arab nations of the Gulf area. The company specialises in commercial law. I moved down to the Gulf State. The firm helped me find a small but smart, secure, and comfortable apartment in a modern tower block. There was an attached sports club and swimming pool and I quickly settled in.

I was in no hurry to settle down and had a succession of minor flirtations with other expatriate men. The place turned out to be a little more boring and staid than I had thought it might. You had to be very careful about drinking and driving and, despite the apparent sophistication of the place; you had to be very wary as a lone European female at night.

Everyone knew everyone else and if you sneezed in one place, they knew you had a cold at the other place down the road before you arrived. The place was very expensive, even though the money was good, and you worked very long hours with an early start, without exception.

It was the rule that all of us in the office did more than enough work for two people. Despite being young and fit, I soon put a premium on sleep. This was not quite what I had expected from taking holidays in the place, but the job turned out to be very interesting and I could save money.

Time flew past and within two years, I was heavily involved with the work of the firm and at a very senior level for my age.

A local airline and aviation services company were trying to introduce some new helicopters to the area. The inevitable question arose about who should be the "Agent" for this European helicopter manufacturer.

This was a tricky area, as it was politically sensitive. If you wanted to sell cheap toys, then anyone local could be an "Agent." But because it was a high-value product with a fair exposure to local officialdom, it was a different matter. There was a pecking order amongst the locals, and they sort of stood in line. We usually had a view of who was in line for the next biggie. During the negotiations of the deal, both sides required representation.

This time, we found ourselves in the slightly unusual situation of working for the locals. We had as a paid advisor an older sheikh who was well-connected with the local ruler. He advised us that the proposed agent was the equivalent of a Lieutenant Colonel in their Air Force and he was a second cousin of the Ruler.

The first thing would be to negotiate his "fee" with the helicopter manufacturer. We needed to meet the candidate to find out what he expected and for him to discuss with us his "opening" and "walk" positions. The senior partner rang him and set up a meeting at our office.

Came the day of the meeting. Our man arrived at the appointed time. We sat down in our conference room. He would have been about 40 and he looked quite fit.

Our man was in traditional dress with gold trimmings and the gold belt, ceremonial knife etc. he had come in full fig for the important meeting. I thought he kept trying to meet my eye, and I gave him one or two chances. There was a possibility he would drop a Rolex on me!

With that little beard just turning a little grey, and big dark eyes, he was quite attractive. He looked quite distinguished. His spoken English was good with not much of an accent and he was very polite.

His views on 'open' and 'walk' were spot on, so that part of the discussion was over quickly. We moved on to other areas, including liabilities, insurance, what exactly he would have to do for his agency fee, and what would need to be defined as extras.

Again, he was well-versed in all this. I warmed to him because he didn't mess about and he knew what he wanted. His position was reasonable, and when something had to be explained to him, he took the point quickly and did not prevaricate.

We got about twice as much done in the time as I thought we would, and then he came up with surprising news. It turned out that the manufacturer, once they agreed on the agency deal, wanted him to visit their plant. They requested this because they wanted him to represent them about other products.

He thought he would need some legal support and asked if I would like to go on the team with a male colleague because there would be enough work for the two of us. He said that we could fly there with him in the executive jet belonging to his cousin who was a full Prince. I couldn't believe it!

The immediate thing was to get the helicopter agency deal signed up with the lawyers of the manufacturer. They had booked into a local hotel. This we did over the next 48 hours, getting official approval from the relevant ministry shortly after, all done in record time.

Hamid (that was his name) was delighted. He arranged for us all to fly out to Europe the next week. I packed my best outfits, bought a new one, got my hair done, crash-dieted down by about four pounds, and got ready.

On the day of the trip, a limo came for me at the apartment and took me to the steps of the beautiful executive jet. It looked a little like a jet fighter with a raked nose, swept-back wings, engines at the back, and I could stand up in the middle.

It had leather seats and was very comfortable. We took off and climbed away at an incredible rate. Hamid, once airborne, took off his robes to reveal a pair of slacks and a golfing shirt underneath and got to talk to us.

He said he had got into the armed forces because of the former British Protectorate. Our troops had seen him make a go-cart out of littles of planks, some old pram wheels, and nails.

His efforts impressed our lads, and they helped him. Hamid got talking to them and they said, "When you are old enough, why don't you join your new defence force?" and so, as soon as he was old enough, he did.

He liked us because of that and we must have treated him well! Hamid could fly but didn't have time on that executive jet. During his military service, he had been in helicopters. The agency job suited Hamid because he knew what he was dealing with. He was splendid company and quite funny.

We arrived in Europe, went to the meetings and everything went very well once again. We were staying in a luxury five-star hotel and on the third evening, my male colleague went off to look up friends, leaving me to look after myself.

I had just showered and was looking through the entertainment section of the local paper when the phone rang and it was Hamid. He invited me out for supper at what turned out to be a beautiful old restaurant overlooking the river. We had a lovely meal, and he was quite a gentleman, only putting very mild pressure on me.

With the better part of a bottle of wine down me, (he wasn't that good a Moslem) my resistance was weakening. I took the low-dose pill all the time "just in case" and it didn't have any noticeable side effects on me. So if I was in the mood, there was no problem and this time I was in the mood. The inevitable happened, and we ended the evening in my room.

Hamid was quite good in bed and virile, but he was like a little boy and seemed to enjoy being mothered. I have heard other girls say that about Arab men. It was all rather odd. Inevitably, he had to tell me he was married, of course, he was.

I thought of 'back home' in the Gulf and he raised the subject. "Will you see me again?" he asked. I thought I would and told him so because he was good company and I could take some more of these all-expenses-paid trips to Europe.

I asked about the question of discretion. He was quietly insistent that back home, we must never be together in public. I was never to talk about our relationship, or in public or otherwise, to reveal his name or telephone number.

He said, "We do it like this. Most of us own several cars, a couple of expensive ones for business and family use, and cheaper Japanese saloons for going shopping, running around town, etc. They are quite common and no one notices them or the occupants as the cars all have tinted windows.

"I would come dressed in Western clothes, probably wearing a baseball cap -- a lot of Indian guys go around looking like that. I will not stand out in a crowd or draw attention to myself."

"Your apartment has a garage underneath where I can park discretely and I know there is a lift with access by either a swipe card or security phone. You would know I am coming and I will come straight up in the lift. It's easy."

He had it all worked out and I couldn't see a problem.

The visit ended, and we flew back to the Gulf, the same limo driving me back to the flat. Hamid gave me a Rolex (discretely) as a parting gift for the trip. I felt a little like a kept woman, but what the hell!!

I still had my job and my self-respect. It escaped my recognition that I might be in for serious problems. It didn't seem to matter much. I could always up and leave if things got too tricky. With my experience, I could get a job anywhere. There was a limit to life in the Gulf.

Back at the apartment, I met with Hamid several times. Looking at my naked person seemed to please him as much as anything, and he wasn't at all kinky. Cuddling and petting satisfied him when what I wanted was a hard, steamy session!

He didn't like oral either way. I let him see me wash on the bidet once, in case he was concerned about hygiene. It was all a little boring!

He gave me little gold presents, which a girl always likes! But after a few months, strange things happened. I would come back to the apartment and get the feeling that someone had been in. Hamid did not have a key, and there were two locks on the door. One was a five-tumbler Swedish security lock and if I was going out for five minutes, I always locked both of them.

I was so sure that things were being moved that I started putting one of my hairs in the door of my bedroom, trapping it tight against the doorframe before I left. Then one day when I got back, not only had the hair moved but also the door was just ajar.

I never, ever left it like that and the door latch engaged perfectly. This scared me, as this was definitive proof. I looked carefully around the flat, and I found that my address book was out of place. My collection of CDs and cassettes that I kept in order was now slightly out of order and I could swear that a couple of cassettes were missing.

I never, ever left things like that, as I am a methodical person and I wondered what to do. This seemed a little too sophisticated for the local police. I had no definite proof, and I was afraid of attracting attention.

The police were OK at rounding up illegal immigrants and running speed traps, but not too much else. Neither did I want to, nor could I talk about it at work. I simply did not know what to do.

Things got worse. I noticed unusual cars in the garage at the apartment and one day, there was a local guy just sitting in a car doing nothing. Eventually, I plucked up the courage and called Hamid on his mobile. He came round later on that evening looking worried and wearing local gear and dark glasses.

Hamid never normally did that. His agitation showed. He said, "We have to stop seeing each other. Perhaps the authorities don't like it. You are being watched, I'm sure, and I don't know why. Please, take a holiday as soon as possible and leave for a couple of weeks. When you come back, you can see if things have gone back to normal. I have to go now."

He left without another word. I sat there and burst into tears. What on earth was going on? It sounded much worse than simply a case of an angry wife. I resolved to pull myself together and get the security lock changed the next day.

I was so worried that I checked if I could spend a couple of nights at my girlfriend's place whilst I got the lock changed and thought things over a little more. My friend sounded delighted to talk to me and when I explained (part of) the situation; she invited me over straight away.

I flung some things into a bag and went to the car, started up, and drove out towards her place. The low fuel warning light came on and it was not good to break down without fuel. I pulled into the next garage. Fortunately, it was just down the dual carriageway, and I filled up.

Just after I pulled out of the garage back onto the carriageway, a police Mercedes hurtled up from behind, pulled in front of me, and put the STOP sign on. I pulled up immediately, with my heart going into triple time. A man and two policewomen got out of the car and gestured at me to get out. I did so with my engine still running.

The police officer and a policewoman grabbed me and handcuffed me, getting me off-balance and dragging me into the back of the police car. They held me down in the back seat and the driver sped off into the darkness. I was crying and struggling, to no avail.

Eventually, I sensed bright lights around us. The car stopped, the doors opened, and they dragged me out without a word. I looked around and saw that we were in a high-walled compound with armed guards, security posts, barbed wire, and floodlights.

They hustled me into an unmarked building. There were no markings or signs apart from numbers on doors and it was very frightening. They frog-marched me into an office, handcuffed me to a chair that was bolted to the floor, and left me sobbing for a while, having removed my wristwatch. There were no windows, and I didn't know where I was.

It couldn't be far from the town because I had been in the Mercedes for less than 15 minutes, I thought. Eventually, a man in a sort of uniform, but with no badges or rank markings, came in and sat down behind a desk.

They turned a bright light on and shone it straight into my face. "We know you are an Israeli spy. Tell us what you are doing here." "I'm not a spy," I replied between sobs. "I'm a lawyer." He laughed, came round, and slapped my face hard. "You are lying. We know you are a spy."

He kept me sitting there for maybe an hour, just going on like that; it was exhausting, and I was bursting for a pee. During this time, they slapped me a little more and my hair pulled. My initial fear turned to anger. Who did these people think they were? All I had done was screw someone a few times, hardly much of an offence anywhere.

Eventually, two female uniformed staff came in and undid the handcuffs from the chair. They hustled me down some corridors and into a cell, slamming and locking the door behind me. The cell was bare but clean and it was air-conditioned.

There was a small frosted glass window high up one wall, but you could see nothing out of it. There was a flush toilet, a shower cubicle, and a bed with a couple of sheets that ran along one wall. I felt my face. It was a little swollen but there were no broken teeth and I wasn't bleeding.

I tended to myself, sitting there in tears, wondering what to do. There was nothing to eat, but there was a large bottle of water left on the floor. I drank some water, lay on the bed, and tried to think. Probably no one knew I was there. What had they done with my car?

The office would know I had not turned up for work, go looking for me, and draw a blank. Hopefully, they would talk to my friend, but all this might take a couple of days. They might very well wait 48 hours before alerting the authorities. I drifted into a disturbed sleep to be woken quite early by two different women who suddenly opened the cell door and came in.

They told me to strip naked and to shower. I thought they came from somewhere on the Indian subcontinent. One of them (the bigger one) was carrying a wicked-looking whip, banging it against her hand, whilst looking at me. I did as I was told and showered quickly.

They let me dry and then handed me a one-piece "prison uniform" (clearly I was in some sort of prison). In a sort of clinic, the two women waited while another pair of women in white coats gestured for me to get up onto an examination couch. They did all the usual things and then turned me over on my face.

They made me clean up on a bidet whilst they watched, then gave me a most embarrassing and very painful internal examination. I tried to protest, but the one with the whip came over and shook it threateningly.

I was then marched back down to the "interrogation room." This time, it was an Arab woman. From her accent and the dialect she used, I was sure she was North African. She began, "You may as well tell us the truth or we will beat it out of you. It's up to you."

"But I'm not a spy. I'm just a lawyer." "No," the woman said, "You are a spy. We have seen your address book. You have the London address of a Mossad agent."

Now I knew what had happened. It must have been they who went to my flat and found my address book. I had the addresses of my London friends in it and some of these were Jewish as they were in the law business like me.

It never occurred to me that my address book was a security risk. "But my Jewish friends are mostly involved in law, just like me," I protested. "We know that one of these friends of yours works with Mossad. You will tell us about him."

I wasn't sure which one they meant. One of them was a little more political than the others and visited Israel sometimes (the others did not as far as I knew), so I guessed it had to be him. "Do you mean David XXXX?" (XXXX is a typically Jewish name) I replied "

"Yes, that's the one," she smiled. "All I know about him is that he is a very successful commercial lawyer specialising in London property and he plays the piano very well."

That was a lot of what I knew about him.

I would not tell them he could keep it up for about two hours at a time, nor that he was quite kinky, being into water sports and spanking fetishes. Spanking within reasonable limits was OK, but I drew the line at watersports, which is why I split up with him.

This was annoying. In the UK you can be friends with whoever you please and it's not illegal to keep an address book. What was this all about?

So I asked, "What exactly are you accusing me of? You've got no evidence beyond an innocent address. When this gets out, it's you who will be in trouble with the British Government."

She laughed. "Your friendship with Hamid breaks one of our religious laws." I knew that. I knew that they never enforced it if you were discrete and the Western world held it in contempt because of the double standard it implied. Had their government enforced it, most of the Ruler's male relatives would be in jail.

"So what?" I said, "Most of your guys just go to the UK to pick up tarts." She froze with anger. It had not been a good move on my part.

I imagine she was very jealous of this blonde European girl because no one would have looked at her ever unless they were ninety per cent blind.

She glared at me and replied, "We will have to show you what we mean, but because you are young, I'm going to give you time to think about it."

She called for the guards in Arabic (she used the Arabic word for a guard) and they marched me back down the corridor, through a pair of double doors, down another corridor, and into what was a torture chamber at the far end.