Twenty Three

The area was bordered on all sides by tall walls. Even the gate that the truck had entered by was already sealed up with a solid slab of sheet-metal. Small out-buildings were dotted here and there, but the focal-point of the enclosure was a large, boxy, three-story dwelling, which loomed before her. The entire place was constructed of mud-brick, plastered smooth and painted in pastel colors. At the front of the main residence, she could see a single large entryway, shaded by a wide green awning. Otherwise, the building was featureless, save for a few small windows, set high up in the structure.

A thin, dry haze of dust hung in the air. Agnes glanced around, but couldn't pick up any landmarks. She might have been two hundred miles from the capital, or (if the drivers had gone in circles for five hours) in a nearby suburb.

One of the men who had traveled with her, bearded, swarthy, and a bit older than most, gestured toward the entrance of the big house with his rifle. His demeanor wasn't menacing, just matter-of-fact, maybe even a bit bored.

Beneath the awning, the door was flanked by a couple of guards. They frisked her competently, and ran metal and RF detectors over her body. She fought successfully to keep her cheap plastic wristwatch, which proved too inert to even set off their equipment. (Foolish of them, since the CIA probably could have embedded some useful gadgetry in it; but in fact it was just something she'd picked up at Target a few years back for $9.99.) Beyond that, there was nothing for them to find—she'd left her gun and phone in the office, as directed. Anyway, Rahim's men had already searched her carefully before putting her in the first truck. She understood the guards' caution, but resented every second that was wasted this way.

At last, the pair decided Agnes wasn't a threat. One of them escorted her through the front entrance, and into a sparsely-furnished antechamber. In the far wall, she saw an open doorway, screened by curtains that gleamed with a metallic sheen. The guard called out in Harbali: "she's here, boss!" Then he turned on his heel and went back outside.

From behind the curtain, a voice rang out, in an animated, masculine tenor. It spoke clumsy English with a strong Harbali accent. "CIA woman, you have come. Enter!"

* * * * *

Agnes parted the curtain, and stepped into a much larger room. It was well-lit and luxurious. Expensive Persian rugs covered the floor, and high-quality textiles adorned the walls. Scattered here and there were sumptuous pillows. On one of them, a man reclined casually. He wore earth-tone robes and a close-fitting black turban, tied from a shemagh scarf. Presumably this was Abdullah Rahim, the man she had come to see.

Rahim nodded slightly to acknowledge her presence, a thin smile on his lips. Then he clapped his hands, calling loudly in Harbali: "Fatima! The woman is dusty from the road. Bring water!"

While they waited, the man looked her over carefully. His frank inspection made Agnes self-conscious. She knew she was attractive. With her creamy complexion, slender nose, and icy blue eyes, all framed by shoulder-length goldenrod locks, she was used to drawing more than her fair share of masculine attention, both at home and here in Harbalistan. But that didn't mean she sought it out.

In fact, Agnes felt deeply ambivalent about the effect she had on the opposite sex. Even before her religious conversion, she had never really wanted to catch men's eyes—she would have preferred to be invisible. Now, her faith taught that the flesh was corrupt, and vanity a sin. Yet, physical appeal was undeniably useful for a spy—especially a female spy. Men were far more likely to boast or confide to her, than to her male colleagues. So she tried to think of it as a gift from God.

Her charms appeared to be working on Rahim, at any rate. "You are more beautiful than my cousin said," he remarked casually. Agnes was torn between wanting to accept the complement and preferring not to encourage this line of conversation. In the end she said nothing, and an awkward silence descended on the room.

Soon, a female figure bustled in through a side-door, toting a small basin and a towel. At first Agnes barely glanced at her, but then she did a double-take. The girl (Fatima?) was entirely unclothed!

She was young, early-20s probably, with a round, cheery face, dark skin, and glossy black hair bound up in a bun. She wore gold combs in her hair, heavy gold bracelets on her forearms, a jewel in her naval, and a pencil-thin belt of gold around her waist. Other than that, she was completely uncovered—revealing a frame that was slightly chubby, with large torpedo-shaped breasts that sagged a bit under their own weight. Agnes knew, hypothetically, that Muslims shaved their genitals, but now she had the proof: the woman was indeed entirely bare, her smooth puffy mons giving way to a deep slit that ran down between her legs. Under the circumstances, this detail struck Agnes's Catholic sensibilities as vaguely obscene.

Fatima brought the basin over and set it down before Agnes. For a long moment, the agent's surprise and bewilderment was such that she could only stare at the naked woman before her. She felt her face redden and her chest tighten, as if experiencing sympathetic shame on the poor girl's behalf. Then, with an effort, Agnes took hold of herself, and looked fixedly away—unsure whether her intention was to preserve Fatima's modesty, or her own.

Rahim seemed amused by her discomfort.

After Fatima had retired, Agnes crouched at the basin, rinsed her hands and face, and dried them with the towel. Then, straightening, she broke the silence in the room. "Abdullah Rahim, thank you for seeing me. My name is Agnes Becker, and I'm here representing the United States of America. I need your help to stop a terr..."

He cut her off with a curt gesture; then continued gazing at her thoughtfully. This time, she returned his scrutiny with equal candor. She figured he was trying to intimidate her, perhaps to gain the upper-hand in their dealings, so she pitched her body-language to show she wasn't daunted by him.

Rahim was in his mid-40s, she guessed, but looked older—no doubt from a lifetime spent enduring the sun, wind, and hardship of the Harbali hinterlands. He had dark, leathery skin; a close-trimmed beard; a lean, hatchet-sharp face; a hawk nose; and close-set eyes that were black, liquid, and piercing. Not to her taste, really, but undeniably charismatic. She could see why so many tribesmen had rallied to him.

"You are a puzzle," he said at last, speaking slowly and deliberately. "You see, I follow tradition. Not like those people in the city, like my cousin, who have turned into Westerners. Here, CIA woman, you are in the real Harbalistan. Here, men come to do business, and I meet them outside, beneath my tent. Here, women are for the home, for family and kids and enjoying life... But you—you are a puzzle. A woman who comes to do business. What should I do with you?"

Judging the question to be rhetorical, Agnes pasted an attentive look on her face and waited for him to continue. Rahim, it seemed, was an old-school sexist, and intended to do some grandstanding on the subject. She'd met lots of men like that since joining the CIA—more of them here in the Mideast, but plenty back at Langley too—and she had a pretty good idea how to handle them. Under these exigent circumstances, she would be perfectly willing to stroke Rahim's masculine ego a bit, if that's what it took to get the intelligence she needed.

The warlord gestured theatrically about him. "Well: I cannot do business with you under the tent, because you are not a man. So, you see: I bring you into my private space, the place for my wives and children." He pointed to the curtain behind her. "No man comes through that door, except me." Then, flashing a humorless grin, he added: "If they did, I would shoot them!"

"Thank you for having me in your home, Ra'is Rahim," she said, with what she hoped was ladylike deference. "It is indeed a special honor. Your wisdom and hospitality are deepl..."

He broke in as if she wasn't even speaking. "But! If you wish to remain, then you must obey the rules of my house."

Agnes had no idea what he meant by this. "Of course, I respect yo..."

Again he simply talked over her. "And, it is the rule in this house that women do not wear clothes."

* * * * *

A chill fell on the room. Faced with such a fantastical proposition, Agnes tried to persuade herself that she had misunderstood him. Perhaps Rahim's English was worse than it seemed...? After a moment she spluttered, "Um, you don't understand. I just n..."

Calmly, he raised a hand to her. "In my home, I do not meet with a woman who is clothed. Take them off. Or, leave."

To hear the provocation repeated sent a jolt of righteous indignation through Agnes's mind. Who the fuck did this bastard think he was?! She reined in her temper as best she could, but a cold light shone in her eyes, and she spoke through gritted teeth. "So, this is how you greet important visitors, Abdullah? You must be weak in the head!"

He shrugged. "It is you who comes begging favors, CIA woman. If you do not need my help, then go."

She stammered for a beat or two; then rallied for a rather scattershot attack. "Wh-well, how do I even know you can help me? For all I know, you're lying through your teeth about having information! Or... maybe, you're really the terrorist. Maybe you masterminded the whole plot! I could send a SEAL team here to conduct my business—all men, by the way. How would you like that?"

He didn't seem particularly worried by her threats, but took exception to being lumped in with the Islamic extremists. "Listen, woman. I am not a terrorist. Those jihadis are a bunch of troublemakers! I know these men because they used to work for me, before some crazy mullah twisted their minds. There are five of them. They have some atom bomb from Korea, you know? And they will attack today, if your people do not stop them."

A slight catch in her breath told him that he had hit a nerve. Bending forward, eyes unblinking, he went on in a more confidential tone: "You see? I know everything about their plan. If we reach an arrangement, then I will tell you." He leaned back and gestured at her business suit. "But we cannot even discuss it if you do not show me proper respect."

Anger and frustration mixed freely in Agnes's mind now. She hadn't shared any of those details with Iskander or Rahim, and they all tracked. Clearly, this man did possess intel she needed. And he was trying to leverage it into... making her undress for him?! It was bizarre, disorienting. And most of all, infuriating!

She lashed out again. "Don't be an idiot! You do not want to make an enemy of the CIA. If you don't help me, and those terrorists succeed, then I will make it my personal mission to rain missiles down on you! There won't be anything left but ashes."

He smiled blandly. "It may be so. Or your soldiers may find that I am a very, ah, slippery man... But, if I do die from CIA bombs, it will be quick. Those Americans dying from atom sickness will suffer much more..."

Haranguing him obviously wasn't working, so she choked down her anger and attempted a more ingratiating tone. "Look, it doesn't have to go down this way, Rahim. If your intel is good, we can get you money. A lot of money. And do favors for you. The CIA is a very good friend to have."

Rahim said nothing. Instead, he pulled a smartphone from somewhere under his robes and started scrolling through messages. Several awkward seconds passed, before Agnes realized that the man wasn't even going to bother responding to her.

Her rage was beginning to give way to bafflement and despair. Until a few moments ago, she'd really only been hoping she could get her hands on the necessary information in time. And although she hadn't admitted it to herself, in her heart she'd known that it was a truly forlorn hope indeed. Now, everything had changed. Now, she had good reason to believe that the information not only existed, but was in the possession of the man seated before her. It seemed she had found the answer to her prayers. Yet... the clock was ticking, and she remained stuck at an impasse with the patriarchal asshole. She couldn't do what he asked, obviously. But she had offered both the carrot and the stick, and didn't know what else to try.

Weakly, she took a stab at reasoning with him. "Ra'is Rahim, Islam teaches modesty for women. You know that what you are asking goes against your own religious convictions..."

This at least got him to look at her again. A sneer of disdain crossed his face. "Pahhht! Islam says that women should be modest in the world. If a decent woman leaves the house, she should cover not just her body, but also her hair and face—which I see you do not do. Islam also says that in the home, in the harem, wives should please their husbands. And here in my home, it pleases me if they remove their clothes."

"Yes, but, I'm not your wife. Surely you don't make other women who come here..."

He seemed exasperated. "What other woman would be so indecent as to come into my home like this!? It has never happened! You come here like a whore, beg for my help, and complain when I ask you to behave as my wives do. And then you say I am crazy!"

She felt she was perilously close to begging now. "I-I just can't do what you're asking, Ra'is Rahim. It isn't the Western way. We have our own traditions—in America women conduct business too. I will discuss our business in your tent, or I will discuss it with you here. But what you are asking—it... it's simply impossible."

He gave a dismissive flick of his hand, and returned to the phone. "Do as you will. My men will drive you back to the city."

She stood there awkwardly, feeling very isolated and alone. There seemed no point in arguing any further. A part of her mind couldn't help wondering what it was all about—she'd never heard of any Muslim, no matter how misogynistic, making a demand like this before. But in the end, it didn't really matter. Whether it was archaic sexism, a twisted power-play, or something else entirely, the crux of the matter was that he clearly wasn't going to budge.

Every fiber in Agnes's being told her to walk out the door and never look back. That was obviously the right thing to do, and no one would ever blame her for it. But... she couldn't see how she could do that. If she left without gaining this horrible man's cooperation, then it would be tantamount to giving up—there were scant hours left and she saw no other way forward. And giving up would mean condemning thousands of Americans to gruesome deaths. Plus, she thought... wouldn't it mean forsaking her commission from God as well?

Propelled by this logic, she began to feel there was really no other choice but to comply with his perverted ultimatum. And oddly, it made her think of the gold stars she'd seen on the wall at Langley. Agents were asked to make sacrifices every day. The thought of baring herself to this smug heathen, in exchange for nothing but his willingness to talk to her? It was awful—it made her feel small and dirty and ill-used. It would be a sacrifice. But it was still just a trifle, compared to those patriots who had given their lives for their country. Right?

Seeking one final push, she glanced at her wrist. 10:46:30... 10:46:29... 10:46:28...

Shit! There was simply no more time to worry about personal indignities. She needed to act before it was too late.

Swallowing her gorge, heartbeat pounding in her ears, Agnes dropped her suit-jacket to the ground. Abdullah Rahim glanced up from his phone with a satisfied smirk.

* * * * *

Agnes wished the man had kept reading his messages. His penetrating stare made her feel like a lab specimen under a microscope. Or (she shuddered), like an exotic dancer at some seedy men's club.

Stiffly, she began unfastening the buttons of her frilly, white-silk blouse.

Agnes had never really conceived of herself as an object of sexual desire. Still, she recognized that she had a good body to go with her attractive face. Certainly men had always seemed eager to try to get her clothes off. Now, in her early thirties, her charms remained undiminished—if she had lost a bit of the glow of youth, it was more than offset by the poise and confidence of full adulthood. In fact, thanks to her CIA training and workout regimen, her figure was probably more trim and alluring than it had ever been.

She took no comfort from any of this as she stripped down before the Harbali strongman, of course. Quite the contrary—if God had seen fit to make her drab and unappealing (she thought with a touch of self-pity), then maybe she wouldn't have attracted the attention of this horrible man in the first place!

One by one, the buttons came undone; and when she reached the end, her blouse draped open. Angrily, Agnes shrugged the garment from her milky white shoulders, revealing a lean, shapely torso and toned arms. Her bra was white and conservatively cut, but enlivened with a touch of lace. Below it, her midsection was taut and her abs showed a bit of definition from countless hours spent doing crunches.

With hardly a pause, she proceeded to unzip her mid-calf black pencil skirt, and allowed it to drop. Her hips were on the narrow side, and her ass was small, though shapely. Mostly, though, one's eyes were drawn to her long, smooth, athletic legs. "Shoes too?" she asked in a monotone. Rahim nodded and she kicked off her flats.

Then Agnes did find herself hesitating. The mud-brick house must have been well-insulated against the desert heat, because the air around her felt cool as it washed over her bare skin. Already she felt naked, and she hadn't even gotten to the hard part yet. Was she really going to expose herself completely to this man...?

Yes (she badgered herself), you are. You have a mission. Don't feel—just do.

Awkwardly, unwillingly, her fingers fumbled open the catch at the back of her bra. Then, pulling her arms through the straps, she heaved a sigh of resignation and allowed the cups to fall.

Rahim's eyes flashed and he flicked his tongue over his lips. Automatically, she glanced downward, as if to follow the line of his gaze. Agnes had always liked her breasts. They were small enough that they never interfered with her active lifestyle—yet, they were far from flat. They swelled out nicely, in fact, with a delectable bit of gravity to the way they hung; and they were adorned with large, delicate pink areolae. Even as she watched, the nipples hardened under the chieftain's scrutiny, and flushed a deeper rosy hue.

The woman was now wearing nothing except her white satin panties. Only her most intimate treasures remained concealed, and she was about to give them up to the creep as well. She felt powerless, like a rabbit in a snare. And even though she knew why she was doing it, she couldn't help being disgusted with herself.

And then... an entirely different thought crossed Agnes's mind: a thought which made her blush furiously with a new wave of embarrassment. "I—I..." she stammered.

Rahim was clearly enjoying the show, and may have feared she was about to chicken out. "Yes? What?"

"I, um... Ra'is, you should know that I don't... I mean, I'm not... you know, I'm not... shaved down there." She gestured lamely toward her crotch.

God, this was mortifying. Agnes had always felt more comfortable going natural. Oh, she trimmed her mound neatly enough (she was a meticulous person); but to actually go bare would have struck her as immodest, and oversexed. And anyway, it had always seemed a purely personal decision. She had never imagined anyone else would see her bush—let alone deem it offensive to their religion!