Chapter 11

The careful use of the Canadian communications expert as a new source helped save my “bacon” with the dispatchers in Islamabad at a time when my value to the cause was waning fast. They had only sent me half of the customary funds for operational expenses in the last courier run and it was a message I would be foolish to ignore.

I managed to keep the identity of my new source a complete mystery and I was running her as a candle to my flame of debauchery rather than with any promise of monetary reward.

Leanne seemed on the surface to be an uncomplicated female but as I peeled the layers of the feminine onion I could tell she had been deeply hurt emotionally in the past and that she was addicted to the kind of kinky pastimes that were my first priority in this decadent Western city of sin. The pretty Canadian had taken to my Jesse like a cat with her catnip and I merely furnished the icing on the cake of shameful degradation. It was obvious that Leanne was a person who soaked up the stuff like a full blown addict and that she was destined to fall lower and lower into the pit of desperate humiliation. I was overjoyed to furnish the grist for her mill and she never failed to deliver what my jaded flesh needed to reach new heights of decadent sensations.

She liked to watch me discipline my Jesse on her chain and I would be stricter than ever before because I knew it delighted her to watch the lessons. Jesse didn’t mind being exhibited like that and in fact I suspected it made her feel wanted to be given such attention. We both liked to watch Jesse taking it up her bum and listen to her whimpers and pleas for respite. Sometimes Leanne would push Jesse’s face between her legs when she was near her orgasm just to spray her face with her held-in juices that made my Jesse’s face glisten with the shine of sticky goo. They certainly were like a pair of bookends perfectly matched in kinky desire.

I had recently furnished several reports to my superiors about the lack of proper security around many Western Embassies that had been filched from the files by my dependable Leanne. She laughed when she told me they just left the stuff sitting in piles waiting to be shredded with no controls at all. Most of the stuff was “run of the mill” items from the American Intelligence services but the Embassy details struck me as being of immediate interest to my fellow Jihadists simply because they were always considered to be “hard” targets.

Even with my low-level expertise in security matter, I could discern that the slow erosion of the armed Marine Security Guard elements made the targets much more exposed than ever before and open to a well-planned attack. In fact, in some less sensitive countries, the Embassies were relegated to being defended by local security or local police forces that had little military experience in such matters. It didn’t seem like a problem of funding with the Americans but more an expression of projected trust in the host nation to take care of such problems. It was a bureaucratic stupidity that gave us some hope of cracking the final lines of defense around the supposed hard targets.

I don’t think Leanne had even read most of the reports and considered them just so much “garbage” to be gotten rid of.

It was beginning to look like my handlers were relaxing their negative thoughts about me, at least momentarily, because of the value of my reports. I was not surprised that on the next Friday morning I received an e-mail from PC Anderson under a fake user name that instructed me to meet in the bookstore next to the police station where she worked covertly. I had not seen her for some time and I hoped she might be interested in some “obedience” instructions from a male member of her own faith. Her bleached blond hair was as impressive as ever and she wore her police uniform so tightly that she almost looked like she was performing on a stage in a gentleman’s club. I knew that under that guise she was actually a devoted servant of the prophet and that she truly only did the decadent things because it was expected of her “liberated” female character. The very first time we had met inside the police station, I had humped her standing up in her police uniform inside a tiny closet filled with bullet-proof vests and handcuffs. She had prayed to the Supreme Being the entire time and her fluttering vaginal lips informed me that it had been a long time since she had received the seeds of a fellow “true believer”.

She was leaning on a bookcase filled with hundreds of books about World War II and looking at a brochure of taking River Cruises on Continental Rivers. Standing slightly bent over in her tight police trousers, she made a picture that attracted the attention of any male within eyesight. I would be the first to admit to a fixation on the beautiful female with her heart-shaped bottom and a tongue that would cause an Imam to blush. I approached at an oblique angle not wanting to thrust myself into any watchers point of interest. It seemed innocent enough with two book lovers simply poring over their selections with no connection at all.

“I see you have the one on the withdrawal from Dunkirk. Do you find it interesting?”

I posed this question loudly enough to be overheard by nearby observers but at the moment it seemed like we were not in danger of any surveillance and we both were “old hands” at the game of cat and mouse.

“Yes, it appears that the prey in this book needs to make alternate arrangements to make their escape. Time was of the essence and not a single moment to be wasted.”

I understood immediately that PC Anderson was warning me of imminent danger but was not at liberty to discuss who or what was in play. She wasted no time in breaking contact and moved out of the store with a rolling sway that caused males to stop what they were doing and catch the show.

The next time I saw PC Anderson, she was stretched on a slab at the morgue and I had to pretend I didn’t know who she was at all. It was a gut-wrenching scenario and one that stayed with me for a very long time. Apparently, some covert American organization with tentacles in London had searched her out as a terrorist working for the police and when they notified the authorities, she took her only way out and chewed her cyanide capsule hidden in a false tooth. I had been outfitted with one as well but made certain to dispose of it safely shortly after I was let out on my own. Suicide was definitely not on my agenda in the scheme of things and I failed to comprehend how so many of my fellow compatriots were able to go that route.

They had called me in to ask me why PC Anderson had my telephone number in her possession when she took the poison pill. I answered with complete honesty and told them it was because I had given her inside information on a smash and grab gang that had terrorized the downtown sector for several years. Since I was in her logbook as an “informant” I was excused from further inquiries and hurried back to my flat in order to gather things up and make a quick transfer to an alternate “safe house” already arranged for just such an occasion.

I took Jesse with me, chains and all, and we celebrated the new digs with a bottle of almost black red wine that reminded me of delicious “house” wine in a cheap restaurant.

I didn’t give the new address to the American girl Anne because I was suddenly leery of anyone of American parentage or even remotely connected with the United States, the “Big Satan” of my madrassa days in Pakistan. Leanne, of course, was with us the very next day and I enjoyed sharing Jesse with her and watching her depraved games using my Jesse’s willing flesh.