Chapter 17

Carol Hargreaves was sound asleep in her bed the next morning when her deep slumber was disturbed by the incessant ringing of the telephone. Groggily, she reached out her arm and fumbled around on the bedside table until, at last, her questing fingers managed to locate the instrument. Pulling the handset under the covers where her head was tucked away, she slurred with dry and unmanageable tongue, "Wazz th' smatter?"

"Miss Hargreaves? This is Mr Ilyama."

At the mention of the name of her demanding and strict boss, Carol's eyes shot open and her brain moved up several gears. "Mr Ilyama? Sir. What can I do for you?"

"You can get to the Club as quickly as possible. Take a taxi, we will pay at this end. Get here with all possible speed."

"Right... er, can I ask what this is about, sir?"

"When you get here, Miss Hargreaves, when you get here. Now move!"

Carol looked at the handset that was now buzzing dully beside her. She shrugged her shoulders philosophically and burrowed her head back up into the daylight that was filtering through the thin curtains of her bedroom. Glancing at her alarm clock she groaned for it was only ten thirty in the morning and it had been five before she'd managed to clamber into bed the previous night! Reluctantly kicking the covers off herself, Carol lowered her feet to the floor and stretched her naked body before reaching out to the chair and pulling over her old and tatty jeans and a rather dirty, white T-shirt emblazoned with the logo 'Sindy Says "Barbie is A Slut"' in bright pink ink. Trotting into the bathroom, she quickly washed, brushed her teeth, combed her hair and had a piss. Then, slipping on a pair of sandals and grabbing a shoulder bag, Carol left her flat and hit the street...

A short time later she was sitting in the Mr Ilyama's office awaiting his arrival, somewhat nervously as she had no real idea what this was all about. After about five minutes, the slightly built Oriental bustled in, accompanied by the Club's Personnel Manager, Mr Osbourne. "Ah, Miss Hargreaves. I am so pleased that you arrived here so promptly," the Club's owner began. "Now, as you recall, Osbourne-San told you of the possibility of a second special job being in the offing?"

Carol nodded and agreed that she did, indeed, recall this.

"Good. Well, thanks to circumstances beyond our control, we have had to move the timetable up on this. Things have become urgent whereas we previously believed that we had several weeks to organise this."

"And what is 'this' precisely, sir?" Carol asked.

Mr Ilyama nodded at his associate who placed a file on the desk and took out a photograph. "This is Prince Abdul M'Boku. He's got himself into a spot of bother at home."

Carol picked up the photograph which showed the face of a middle-aged black man, confident, wealthy... and with a certain ruthlessness glinting in his eyes. She put the photo down and looked expectantly at Mr Osbourne again.

"Basically, the Prince is the second son of the Paramount Chief and Life President of a small country in West Africa. It's very small... but very wealthy, stuffed full of diamond, gold and uranium mines," Mr Osbourne continued. "Realising that he was never actually going to gain control of the country - his elder brother would inherit their father's titles, after all - Prince Abdul settled for simply embezzling a fortune out of the country's economy before depositing it into a Swiss bank account. He always knew that this was a finite operation and it was all supposed to end soon with him leaving home and moving to England. But now the authorities in Africa are sniffing about. They've figured out that someone's been fiddling the books, but not who... and the Prince wants out before they do."

"So where do I come in?"

"Well, the Prince was initially planned on obtaining a British passport by... well, by bribing some Consular officials but that plan's hit a few snags..."

"Bit on the unlucky side, this Prince," Carol broke in with a wry smile.

Ignoring the interruption, Mr Osbourne continued, "... so he's had to fall back onto his secondary plan... which is where you come in."

"How?"

"By marrying him," broke in Mr Ilyama.

"Marrying him?" exclaimed a flabbergasted Carol. "I don't even know the man!"

"That is irrelevant," Mr Ilyama went on, unperturbed. "Once you are his wife, he can legally enter this country and the authorities cannot stop him."

"But... but isn't that illegal? Marriage of Convenience... isn't that what they call it?"

"That's true," commented Mr Osbourne picking up the conversation once more, "But only if you get caught. The Prince is no fool and he's been exchanging e-mails and love letters for the past two years with our office over here, building things up. And he's been telling folk over there that he's going to marry an English girl. All we have to do now is to personalise things a little since we now know who he is to marry..."

"But if I get caught... ?"

"Worse case scenario - three to five. A lot less than for murder."

"But the rewards, Miss Hargreaves!" broke in Mr Ilyama. "The Prince is paying one hundred thousand American dollars - in cash!"

Carol did a double take for while she wasn't sure how much that was, she knew it just had to be a lot of money.

"About sixty-five thousand pounds," translated Mr Osbourne.

"And it is yours, Miss Hargreaves... if you agree to marry the Prince."

For a few moments silence descended on the room as Carol weighted up the dangers against the rewards. "And you say that you've been building up a history... ?"

"For two years. No one will be able to disprove the fact that the pair of you have not been developing a relationship by correspondence for that period of time."

"In that case... I'll do it," Carol finally concluded.

Both men smiled. "Good," said Mr Osbourne, "Now... onto the technical matters. First, you have to sign a contract revoking any claims to the Prince's estate and possessions. Then you have to agree to divorce him after he's lived in Britain for one year."

"No problem."

"Now, here's your passport..."

"I haven't got a passport," Carol ventured. "I told you that."

"You have now," continued the Personnel Manager. "Friends in high places. Here's you visa - vaccination certificates - forgeries I'm afraid, but no time for the real things - plane ticket..."

"When do I leave?"

"You're on the one thirty pm flight from Heathrow. Please don't interrupt anymore - this is important. Now, here's a file which you should read on the plane. Before you land, give it to the Chief Steward - he'll destroy it for you; he's a minor relative of the Prince and in on the scam. It's got a copy of all the messages that 'you' and the Prince have exchanged. It's also got a section about the Prince and his family - all the things you would have learnt by now. There's also a whole load of bumf about the country and it's background, history and geography. The limo's waiting for you in the garage. Anything to add, Mr Ilyama?"

"No, that about covers it, Osbourne-San. Apart from mentioning that Miss Hargreaves and the Prince are originally supposed to have met in an Internet Chat Room. Best of luck, Miss Hargreaves... and, any questions?"

Carol then blurted out the obvious one, "When to I get paid?"

"Half on arrival in the country, half after the wedding. Is that acceptable?"

"Erm... yeah, I guess so," replied Carol.

"Very well... you'd best go then..."

Stood in the bathroom of her small flat, the naked and very pretty young ash-blond haired woman glanced at her reflection in the full length mirror and noted, as she had many times before, the perfection of her cute face, her immaculately brushed shoulder length hair, her ample breasts, her flat stomach and her shapely legs... and then she returned her attention to the task in hand - to whit, liberally coating the five inch long soft plastic butt plug in Vaseline. Finally convinced that the job had been completed satisfactorily, she bent forward at her slim waist and, using her left had to part her firm and well rounded buttocks, she slowly forced the plug up into her back passage. As the device slipped in ever deeper, her baby blue eyes widened for the initial sensation was, as always, of mild, burning pain... but then, with the plug finally fully inserted, her sphincter locked itself around the hollowed out collar of the plug and the burning receded to be replaced by a soothing, calming impression of fullness as if this was how things were meant to be. Straightening up, she smiled at her reflection in the mirror, practising showing off her white, even teeth to their best advantage... and then she lathered up some soap and washed the remnants of Vaseline from her hands.