Chapter 19 - Targets in Istanbul

Mr. Faris Rahma, the tall, distinguished American with a surprising command of Turkish and Arabic, brought a glimmer of hope to the struggling Istanbul hotel owner, Mr. Hasan Yildiz. The elderly man, in his late seventies, greeted Rahma with a warm but cautious smile. Yildiz’s deep-set eyes spoke of years of scraping by and struggling to keep hold of the hotel left to him by his father decades earlier.

Yildiz had been delighted to learn that Rahma intended to book the entire hotel for refugees sponsored by “Mawaa Atfa.” He was charmed by Mr. Rahma’s devout piety, his sophistication, and even his knowledge of Yildiz’s ancestral land, Algeria. For a moment, hope sparked in Yildiz’s heart, a hope that his hotel might once again serve a noble purpose, as well make some money.

Meanwhile, across town, Mehmet Kaya, a notorious people smuggler, was equally enthusiastic about meeting Rahma. The promise of upfront payment for transporting refugees to Greece made Kaya eager to contact potential clients like the Al-Tayebs and guarantee them safe passage if they could get to northwest Turkey. He was also happy to recommend Mr. Yildiz’s hotel as a good place for the refugees to spend a few days seeing the city and preparing for the crossing.

Muammar Al-Tayeb felt reassured reading up on Mr Kaya’s social media pages, the man had a proven pedigree going back years. Al-Tayeb’s life had crumbled after the devastating fire destroyed his shop and the boat disaster that had taken his daughter, his brother, his niece, and her baby and husband. The hotel seemd legitimate and for the Al-Tayebs, anything was better than their current overcrowded hovel in Tripoli.

At night, he prayed with his family. His daughter, Samira touched his shoulder afterward and hugged him. She was the apple of his eye. Since her sister Zara, so reckless, had left them and drowned, she had been quiet.

“Father,” she said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder, “I feel Zara’s presence watching over us. I believe she’s giving you the courage to make the best choices.”

A faint smile touched Muammar’s lips as he kissed his sixteen-year-old daughter’s forehead. “Samira,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion, “if anything happened to you, I don’t know how I would go on.”

“Don’t worry, Father,” Samira reassured him. “With you by my side, I’ll always feel safe.”

It was at that moment, that Muammar decided to message “Mawaa Atfa” and tell them that yes, he would accept their generous offer. He thanked God for this heaven-sent opportunity amid so much disaster.

Meanwhile, Pembroke was being kept informed of developments at the complex. The girls had been shocked when Zara had re-joined them in the cell. Her face was heavily disfigured by her self inflicted wounds and the clumsy treatment. The wound in her stomach was deep and she found it hard to move, feeling the injury with every step.

But she was kept with the others and obliged to take part in the same games, though was left out of most of the exercises. The girls were more afraid of her than ever, despite her now resigned and depressed air. Being told to eat out Zara’s pussy and asshole was usually reserved for whoever had annoyed Mrs AL-Haraz the most.

Fatima was scared to tell her cousin about the Master’s threats and plans. Even more so, she feared the Master might maliciously tell her that Fatima had helped him by giving him tips on how to procure her siblings.

As if reading her anxiety, Mrs Al-Haraz called out to the girls in the cell in Arabic.

“Zara! Fatima! Get those sexy Libyan asses up. I am going to get you out of there, I want you to 69 here on the floor in front of the other girls, give them some entertainment!” The Yemeni cackled like the evil witch she was.

Both girls walked obediently out of the cell, and placed their bodies next to each other, finding their way between each others’ legs, and licked and sucked on the familiar vaginal flesh.

Zara’s tears fell from her face onto the ground beyond her cousin’s pussy as she took in the same familiar scent, and felt the same emotions of the tongue inside her. This humiliation would never end. She had not even been punished yet, but knew something would happen when the Master returned. She was now ugly, and possibly maimed. She had ruined her life, whatever happened. She had tried to get out, and she had failed, even as a corpse. Maybe she deserved to spend the rest of her life in this hell.

After days of piety and praying with various community figures to prove his credentials with him, Pembroke was delighted when his alter ego Faris Rahma received a notification that several Libyan families had taken up his offer. He blew out his cheeks as he booked the plane tickets. He really needed to start selling girls.

At his hotel he called Ahmed Al-Masri.

“Eddie! How are things going? I hope the girls are getting good training. But my boss is a little perturbed that the young Dilan Talebani keeps posting online. He enjoys her bikini shots, but he seems to remember being promised that she would have disappeared off the face of the earth by now.”

“Yes...” sighed Pembroke nervously. “Ms Talebani is proving difficult. Lebanon is a hard country and she is a very busy girl with many engagements.”

“My boss is very specific Eddie” Al-Masri was enjoying his old friend’s discomfort. “If she is not in his harem, then the purchase price will have to be reduced significantly.”

“But Ahmed! I have already spent a lot of money getting His Excellency’s girls together! I feel like I am being scammed here!”

Al-Masri laughed at the end of the line. “Eddie, I am sure you have more merchandise you can sell off. You seem to be very busy. We should catch up, I am in France soon.”

Pembroke sighed and ended the call cordially. Dilan was the seventh girl. She might be the toughest of them all, she was getting even more famous. But he had an idea., as ever.

For now, though, his focus was on the poor refugees he was flying in from Libya. The hotel they would be staying in left a lot to be desired, and he lectured the hotel owner on the direction of Mecca to be obeyed in the furniture, the general state of the place, and insisted on arranging who would be in which rooms. The owner was embarrassed, he was ashamed to admit that often illicit activities involving ladies of the night had taken place here, but did not want to ruin the chance of a full booking and to let himself down in front of this respectable man he admired so much.

Pembroke’s own hotel was more upmarket, on the Bosphorus. He looked over his laptop on the lounge, carefully analyzing the passport photos of the refugees and looking over the photos of the girls Fatima had pointed out to him.

“Samira.” He said to himself, staring at a girl in red dress at a private female-only wedding party. Her dark hair was uncovered, her beautiful smile illuminating the room around the bride - Fatima. Zara was beside her, just as beautiful ... but not anymore.

The thought of what he wanted to do to these vulnerable girls made him horny. He went on his phone, and soon found a local escort agency, and agreed to pay good money for a “kinky” service. “Incalls only.” He looked around at his classy hotel. Probably not the place to bring a prostitute back to, it would only attract attention. Just as well, perhaps.