Chapter 43

Gal Avraham had enjoyed a hedonistic few days in Málaga. Dancing, partying, drinking, and making friends, she was just so happy to be free. Two years in the Israeli Defense Forces in mandatory conscription had been tough. She had seen some horrible things. Now, at the age of twenty, she had savings, and she could explore the world.

Gal stood out in any crowd with her vibrant energy and striking appearance. Her dark, wavy hair cascaded down her back, framing her sun-kissed face. Her deep brown eyes sparkled with mischief and excitement. She had spent another evening dancing her heart away. Her sun-kissed skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, highlighting her toned body as she moved effortlessly to the music. Dressed in a vibrant, skimpy top that accentuated her curves and a short, flowing skirt that swirled around her legs, she was the embodiment of carefree happiness.

One lone man looked on, angry at her happiness. Muhammed Zuad, a local barman, had been conversing online with a Palestinian cleric based in southern Spain. Zuad’s mind had been twisted by his anger at the Palestinian-Israeli conflict. He had begged the cleric, Hassan Al-Khatib, for guidance on how to help.

Now, Al-Khatib had told him of a plan they could pull off together. To aid Palestinians, Zuad should kidnap a veteran of the Israeli army in Málaga and force the international community to intervene, potentially leading to the release of prisoners.

Zuad had been nervous, and despite his initial anger, extremely reticent about actually hurting anyone, including any prisoners. Al-Khatib had assured him the hostage would never be hurt. “Our victory will be to show our compassion,” Al-Khatib had told him.

Gal Avraham had been silly enough to both display her pride at being an Israeli military veteran and share detailed plans for her travels. Zuad was not the brightest but smart enough to follow Al-Khatib’s directions to the letter. He used a phone and laptop, which he was careful to prepare for destruction, and communicated through encrypted messages. However, he wanted to meet Al-Khatib in person and not just over a webcam.

Just as Gal had arrived in Málaga, a small yacht had moored in the harbor, the “Zephyr.” Its captain, a Russian man named Dmitri, met with Edward Pembroke, who had flown in on a flight from Istanbul.

“OK, Dmitri,” Pembroke told him. “Hope you enjoyed sailing across the Mediterranean. Unfortunately, my time is far too precious to be sailing around for weeks anymore. Hopefully, this will be a quick snatch, and off we go. Be sure we leave promptly!”

Later, Al-Khatib met with Zuad in a café. Zuad was surprised at how clean-cut and westernized Al-Khatib looked.

“You see, I cannot wear a beard when doing things like this. You don’t look too Muslim yourself!” Al-Khatib laughed. He then went on to mourn his exile from Palestine, explaining his upbringing in North Africa, which accounted for his accent, and his desire to move back to a fully liberated Palestine.

“I have been thinking of nothing else for the last few months, sir. I just want to help!” Zuad was eager to impress this man, who seemed worldly and charming and much more intelligent than he.

“OK, well I have transport arranged,” replied aL-Kittab. “You’re ready for this, remember, I swear to God, we will not harm this girl. We will just keep her for a few days, that’s it!”

“And take her to Morocco?” queried Zuad. This seems more permanent than just a few days.

“Yes, it’s too dangerous here. The police will search the place, and Tangiers will be more favorable to our cause. Anyway, you are trusted at this place?”

“Yes, I have worked there for three years. Everybody respects me. I don’t drink, I don’t chase or harass the women.”

“Excellent. Well, of course, in this case, we will respect this lady’s autonomy completely. She is a prisoner, but we will respect her humanity.”

“Of course,” said Zuad in admiration. “We will release her even if our demands are not met.”

“Absolutely, Muhammed, unlike the Israelis, we are not murderers or rapists!”

Gal thoroughly enjoyed her stay at the hostel; everyone was incredibly friendly and fun. That evening, she eagerly attended a Flamenco class in a tight top and long frilly dress with slits that showed off her legs as she danced. A glistening sheen adorned her skin as beads of sweat traced the contours of her spine and trickled between her buttocks.

After dancing so much, Gal felt exhausted. She shared a room with three other girls, who were all out. She promised herself just half an hour of rest, but instead, she fell into a deep sleep. Unbeknownst to her, the drinks she had been served were spiked, and Muhammed Zuad, the barman, used his staff card to enter her room and gaze upon her sleeping form.

Zuad had modified a cleaning trolley, hollowing it out to conceal Gal inside. Silently maneuvering through the hostel’s back exit, he carefully wheeled her to his car and drove towards the harbor.

Close to the vibrant nightlife of the nearby bustling streets, Zuad and Al-Khatib met outside the Zephyr.

“Did you bring your phone and laptop?” asked Al-Khatib.

“Yes, sir. They won’t be traceable. They might suspect me and arrest me later, but I’m ready to face the consequences here, or in Morocco,” Zuad replied.

“Excellent,” grinned Al-Khatib. “You have nothing to fear. Come on, we’ll be in Morocco before anyone notices she’s gone!”

Zuad was eager as he boarded the yacht, nodding to the captain—a stern, taciturn man who didn’t speak Arabic, but whom Al-Khatib assured him was a Caucasian Muslim.

Gal was barely conscious, but Zuad ensured she was securely but respectfully bound. Soon, they were well away from the harbor and out at sea.

“I want to assure her, when she wakes up, that we won’t harm her!” Zuad said, feeling the weight of guilt on his shoulders.

“I wouldn’t make promises you can’t keep,” chuckled the man he was speaking to.

“What do you mean...?”

Hassan Al-Khatib, also known as Edward Pembroke, produced a gun from his pocket and aimed it at Zuad’s head.

“Thank you for your assistance, but I have far more entertaining and profitable plans for young Gal here.”

In the wilds of the sea, there was no one to hear the gunshot. Zuad fell with a bullet hole between his eyes. Pembroke and Dmitri tied his ankles to a rock they had brought onboard and threw him and his laptop and phone into the sea.

“Well, that will probably go down as a terrorist attack!” laughed Pembroke and their attention turned to Gal. Pembroke had been frustrated by the need for the false gallantry around Zuad and now could reveal his true self.

Gal’s skirt and top were ripped off her, and she was exposed to just her black panties and bra. Pembroke smiled, gently cupping her heart-shaped face. Her nose ring glinted in the moonlight, and her wavy chestnut hair swayed softly in the cold sea breeze. The cold night air made her nipples stiffen through her bra, and Pembroke was pleased to run his hand over them. They were small, about an A cup, but firm and perky. Her breasts contoured down into a toned abdomen with a concave stomach disappearing into nice boyish hips. She looked like a runner and a dancer. She could be a lot of fun in bed, he thought. He could not wait to look into her eyes when she awoke.

Gal woke up expecting to find herself in her dorm bed, ready to return to her dance class. Instead, she found herself tightly bound, confined in a small compartment. Darkness enveloped her, a blindfold covered her eyes, and a gag stifled her mouth. She sensed from the air that she was naked.

The next morning, the hostel staff remained unconcerned. Muhammed Ziad had informed them he would be leaving after his shift and then embarking on a mountain hike for a few days without any phone. Gal had retired early, and since no one knew her well enough to notice her absence from the dorm room, there was no cause for suspicion.

Gal felt a wave of terror as she was led out of the cramped compartment and into a slightly more spacious room below deck. She realized she had been kidnapped and was now being held naked by these two dangerous men, one of whom brandished a gun.

“Now, Ms. Avraham, you’re probably wondering why you’re no longer dancing Flamenco in Malaga,” Pembroke said slyly. “Well, you may dance again, in fact, I hope you do. But you’ll never be free again. You’re going to remain here for the next few days while I attend to some business. In the meantime, you’ll stay naked, quiet, and out of sight.”

Dmitri leered at her. “Boss it has been a while since I fucked a new girl.”

“Indeed Dmitri, one must always explore new experiences” winked Pembroke. “Feel free to use all her holes, she needs to get used to her new life as soon as possible. There will be a strong market demand for this one. Just be careful and keep out of sight here.”

Dmitri smiled, and when Pembroke was out, he shut the windows and blinds and stripped naked. Gal wailed helplessly into her gag, this Russian thug meant business.

Dmitri rubbed her small breasts, massaging them up and down roughly, stretching the undersides of her tits. He could feel the firmness of her nipples pressing into the palms of his hands.

“You like this, bitch, don’t you?” he grinned into her face, taking in the large brown pools of terror in her eyes. He spat on his fingers and moved them between her legs. She was wet, not from being turned on, but from having pissed herself.

Dmitri just laughed and smeared the piss all over her face and up her nose. “Your wet pussy is just getting ready for my cock” he gloated, and stood over her, pulling on his throbbing manhood and plunging it into her vagina. Gal bucked and arched her back, screaming quietly into her gag as his large cock carved its way up into her cervix like a knife.

Dmitri barked and grunted like a dog over her, gripping her breasts like stress balls as he fucked her. Gal could do nothing to resist except wave her head in pain and fear, wondering how on earth this had happened to her.

Just a few hundred meters away from the brutal rape, Admiral Herbert Johnson lay awake in his hotel bed, his mind swirling with memories and regrets that had profoundly altered the course of his life.

It had all begun with a fateful speech in Gothenburg, Sweden, where protests against NATO policies had spiraled into a tragic incident. Three teenage girls, driven by their fervent convictions against military intervention, tragically lost their lives during a perilous protest against Johnson’s impending strategies. Although he wasn’t directly responsible for their deaths, the weight of the incident bore heavily on his conscience.

Months later, fate dealt Johnson another devastating blow: his beloved wife and teenage daughter perished in a sudden and merciless forest fire while vacationing in Cyprus. The shock and anguish from these losses were unbearable, pushing him to a breaking point. It was then that he made the monumental decision to resign from the military, feeling that he could no longer continue under the weight of grief and perceived responsibility.

In search of redemption and a renewed sense of purpose, Johnson turned to charitable work. He threw himself into aiding migrants attempting perilous crossings of the Mediterranean from Morocco to Spain, driven by a deep-seated desire to mitigate suffering and perhaps find a way to atone for what he saw as his past failings.

One aspect of the refugee crisis that drew his passion was caring for female refugees and children as if to atone for the three girls who had drowned at sea. The dangers and perils of life at sea, including threats from unknown refugee men, had discouraged women and children from making the voyage.

In Tangiers, he was volunteering and helping with many charities and organizations aiding refugees, their primary aim being to reach Spain across the sea to claim asylum.

The presence of a former American military man had reassured many of the women, alongside other charities, including one called “Mawaa Atfa.” The latter had been viewed with suspicion by the others, given its shady past and rumors of disasters and irregularities involving migrant deaths in Belarus and Turkey, as well as drug smuggling in Yemen. But Admiral Johnson refused to believe them, dismissing it as likely a conspiracy to tarnish the good name of refugees, just like all the other lies he had believed in before waking up to reality after the tragic deaths had affected him deeply.

The Admiral had had an impassioned conversation online with Mr. Firas Rahma of the charity and had eagerly vouched for him to the other organizations, accusing them of believing the lies of corrupt governments. He was eagerly looking forward to meeting Mr. Rahma soon in person in Tangiers.

When they finally met, Admiral Johnson extended his hand with a warm smile. “Ah, Mr. Rahma, a pleasure to meet you in person,” he said. “Good afternoon, Admiral, such an honor to meet you,” Rahma replied, dressed casually in an open-necked suit with no tie.

“Oh please, no Admiral anymore! I’m just plain Herb Johnson now,” Johnson insisted with a friendly chuckle.

Rahma smiled warmly. “I think it’s very noble of you, Admiral, to invest all your money and time in this venture. You’ve given up your career and your resources to help others. But tell me, what about your family? How do they feel about all of this?”

Johnson’s expression grew somber, and he wiped a tear away. “My family ... I lost my wife and daughter in a tragic accident. They’re gone now, and it’s partly why I’m here. I needed to find a new purpose, a way to honor their memory by helping those in desperate need.”

Johnson pulled out his wallet and showed Rahma a photo of Sheila and Cassie Johnson, two blondes with radiant smiles. “This is Sheila, my wife, and Cassie, my daughter. She was my world,” he said, his voice breaking slightly.

Rahma looked at the photo and then back at Johnson with deep empathy. “I’m so sorry, Herb. They were both so beautiful.”

Inside, Rahma remembered Sheila with great fondness; she had been a lot of fun while it lasted. And Cassie ... he wished he could keep the photo. It would have been a great addition to her collage and perhaps add a few percent to her selling price.

Johnson nodded, oblivious to Rahma’s true thoughts, his eyes misty but resolute. “Thank you, Firas. I just want to make a difference, to help those who can’t help themselves, and maybe find a bit of healing along the way.”

Rahma placed a comforting hand on Johnson’s shoulder. “Your dedication is truly inspiring, Herb. We’re grateful to have you with us, and together, we’ll make a real impact.”

As a military man, Johnson had devised a comprehensive plan. Mawaa Atfa had been heavily involved in the marketing efforts and had persuaded several female refugees to participate, claiming they had vetted their asylum claims with a purported internal legal team.

The boats had been paid for and deemed seaworthy. The plan was simple: sail from Tangiers to a town just north of Tarifa, avoiding the coastguards.

“I’m a naval man, and I’ve sailed all my life,” Johnson boasted to Rahma. “The Spaniards won’t be able to intercept me. Once the women and children reach Spain, they’ll be safe.”

Rahma nodded, his expression a mix of admiration and hidden calculation. “Your experience is invaluable, Herb. The refugees are fortunate to have someone as skilled as you leading this operation.”

For the next few days in Tangiers, Dmitri “relaxed” with Gal on the Zephyr, moored in the harbor, while Firas Rahma resided in a seafront hotel. From the hotel lobby, Rahma interviewed several of the women, advising them on their asylum claims and coaching them on what to say.

Meanwhile, the operation commenced and was a complete success. Herb Johnson was in his element, expertly piloting a small boat across the narrow stretch of water. He dropped off small groups of women and children, with only up to four able to be safely carried at any one time.

Rahma’s charm had won over the other charities present, and they began to dismiss the horrible tales about Mawaa Atfa. Perhaps, they thought, it was just the authorities killing migrants and blaming the charities.

Johnson’s skill and dedication were evident as he navigated the treacherous waters, ensuring each group reached the Spanish coast safely. The women and children, guided by Rahma’s advice, were able to present their asylum claims confidently upon arrival.

Three individuals in particular had responded to Mawaa Atfa’s rather aggressive marketing campaign on social media and were intrigued by the offer of free passage for genuine claimants. However, all three were rather wistful about their chances as they did not think they would have decent claims.

Yasmina Benyoussef, nineteen, worked part-time as a fashion model and clothes store assistant. A high school dropout, she dreamed of living in Europe but lacked the experience or skills to find a decent job. Her social media presence showcased her in swimsuits, party attire, and enjoying life, reflecting her desire for a different lifestyle.

Nadia Mansouri, eighteen, worked in her family’s bakery. Conservative and religious, she wore a hijab and did not want to leave her family. However, she also did not want to agree to an arranged marriage with her second cousin. She felt that leaving the country, even for a while, might persuade her family to drop the idea, allowing her to return home. While Nadia’s social media reflected her piety with photos of her family and herself in modest dress, her much less conservative sister’s profile, who was a close online friend, was full of beach scenes and nightlife attire.

Efua Agyeman, twenty, from Ghana, was a computer science student at the University of New England Tangier campus but had failed all her exams. Struggling to secure funds for her tuition and with no prospects for the future, she faced either returning to Ghana in shame for wasting her family’s money or trying something new in Europe. Like Yasmina, Efua’s social media presence showcased her in swimwear, nightlife outfits, and enjoying life, adding to her narrative of seeking freedom and new opportunities.

Rahma, using his expertise, assessed their situations carefully. He was adept at identifying the key elements that could strengthen their cases, offering them tailored advice to bolster their stories. Through patient coaching, he had been able to transform their initially weak claims into compelling narratives. For the three girls, he devised a story that necessitated that they travel together and make their claims as a group.