Chapter 57

Khadija Amrani giggled shyly with the other girls at the ice cream party in their local café in downtown Brussels. Now 16, she tried to join in the gossip among her hijab-wearing friends about the local boys. She had even fake-boasted about liking a boy named Adnan to provoke some giggles. But the truth was, she wasn’t into boys at all. The sex-segregated nature of her local community suited her perfectly, as she had no interest in boys—only girls.

It was something she struggled with, often finding herself staring or lingering too long into the eyes of her friends, some of whom she had developed insatiable crushes on. She hoped it would pass; she wanted a normal life, to fit in, and to be a part of her Muslim community. But it felt impossible.

Her only outlet was online. Despite many scammers and boys pretending to be girls, she sought out chaste online friendships with girls who had the same feelings. Over the last few weeks, she had slowly fallen in love with a Parisian girl named Miriam. Miriam, also Moroccan, wore a hijab, was of similar age, and shared her desires. Their chats had moved from talking about their lives to something deeper, and Khadija found herself falling in love.

Not wanting her parents to discover this online relationship, Khadija found ways to have whispered conversations, leaving voicemails, and sometimes chatting on camera. Miriam’s cam was clear but delayed, and she looked pretty and beautiful. They spoke together in Moroccan Arabic, deepening their bond.

What Khadija didn’t know was that Miriam Ben-Ali was, to all who knew her, believed to have died in a tragic accident in Istanbul, with her remains interred in a grave in Tripoli. Yet, a girl who looked and sounded exactly like her, going by the name Miriam Sebaai, had a visible social media presence and had become the object of Khadija’s affection.

In reality, the real Miriam Ben-Ali was alive, although not quite so well, with Konrad Fischer. Using advanced AI technology, Fischer had managed to replicate Miriam’s voice and appearance. With ongoing participation from Miriam’s recorded footage and photos, the AI created a convincing persona. Miriam appeared on screen with only a slight delay, seamlessly mouthing conversations. At other times, an AI version of her, perfected from hours of footage, interacted on screen, saying various sentences instantly. Khadija had no idea she was falling in love with an artificial construct.

Konrad enjoyed the challenge of software development, despite the countless hours he had invested in fishing for many girls online. He had gotten very close with many of them, but none had bitten this particular hook yet for the organization.

Konrad did enjoy spending time with the real Miriam, who often spent hours out of her cell in his little study. Sometimes she was naked, sometimes in full hijab, and sometimes under his desk as he coded new attributes of the system. She had occasionally wondered how she could use these interactions to ask for help, but she rarely ever spoke directly to Khadija, if at all.

Her hours spent with Konrad did not endear her to him at all. The more she had to speak the lines and appear on screen smiling, for later or near-instantaneous processing for the conversations, the more awful she felt for poor Khadija. She had a horrible feeling that after all this time, this girl might actually soon be joining her in the cell at the complex.

Edward Pembroke found his visit to the offices of Legrand & Carter to be a humbling experience. Initially, the lawyers had sounded curious and somewhat intrigued over the phone. However, their interest quickly waned and turned nearly hostile when he presented the accounts of Bereketli Yemcilik, seeking their expertise on import-export contracts.

The company had been transporting animal feed from an airport in Nantes, and customs officials, acting on their curiosity, had inspected the black boxes, finding nothing but animal feed. It was a good facade of legality and a test of how regular these checks might be. Yet, the lawyers were incredulous about why a Turkish-listed company needed a private jet to transport ‘exotic’ pet and animal feed and how it could be generating such substantial profits.

Pembroke sighed as he exited the sleek offices. He was in desperate need of legal support to help keep his transit activities from falling under further scrutiny, but finding a crooked lawyer seemed to be a challenge, even in the sophisticated legal landscape of Paris.

“Clémence Carnot! I cannot believe it’s you!”

Pembroke froze, an icy chill running down his spine at the sound of the familiar name—his pseudonym used to pose as a Parisian lawyer months ago. Had he been recognized?

“Monsieur Carnot, I think it is best you leave immediately!” An angry, red-faced man in a suit was storming out of the offices towards Pembroke. Pembroke balled his fists, ready to strike, when he realized the man was looking past him.

The suited man approached a tall, bald, elderly gentleman in a pinstripe suit carrying an umbrella. “Monsieur Carnot, you keep trying to meet the partners, but it’s not happening. You are barred from this building and every respectable firm in Paris. Now clear off!”

Pembroke watched as the bald man, deflated, sighed and remonstrated but ultimately gave up. The man then looked at Pembroke.

“Nothing but bastards in that building. I wouldn’t work there if I were you.”

“Oh, I don’t work there, and I’m not a client. They refuse to work for me.”

“Haha, they are cowboys anyway.” The bald man scrutinized Pembroke as if trying to place him. “Have we met?”

“No, Monsieur...”

“Clémence Carnot, at your service. Import and export attorney. Forgive me if you’ve heard my name before or recognize me for less savory reasons.”

“I am Edward Pembroke.”

“Are you English?”

“Yes, but my mother is French,” Pembroke replied, intrigued by the man’s job title. “I say, if you are in import-export, then I might be interested. I must warn you, none of these firms seems to want to act for me.”

Carnot raised an eyebrow. He considered himself a legal master, yet his reputation had been so ruined by the events of the last year that he had no regular income and could not work for a respectable firm. His networking was terrible, and this man seemed like an easy client.

“Well, Mr. Pembroke, why don’t we have a coffee if you want? It seems we both have had our meetings cut short.”

“And you see, they let these people into our country,” said Carnot angrily, “and this is what they do. That poor Charlotte Spencer—her parents felt awful. They held nothing against me. But no one employs me because those evil bastards stole my identity.”

“I heard about Charlotte Spencer. Yes, she was from London, a dreadful affair,” sympathized Pembroke. “They found who did it, didn’t they?” “Well, yes. Needless to say, some black man, Kwame something or other,” spat out Carnot. “But it was a whole gang who did it—Algerians. The man who impersonated me, from what was described to me—black greasy hair, dark skin, dark eyes—was some swarthy Arab,” he spat. “I mean, who would think a lawyer with a name like mine would look like that? I don’t buy it at all, to be honest. I think it was people out for my job who dragged me into it.”

“It was awful. If only they could just give up the body,” Pembroke shook his head, clenching his fist. “The family could have some peace.”

“Oh, Mr. Pembroke, your England is overrun too by immigrants. It’s all ghastly,” Carnot spat.

“Well, I am half French,” smiled Pembroke, trying to steer the conversation.

“Yes, but you’re European. We play by different rules than those savages, you see,” Carnot replied angrily.

“Well, I can say the borders are pretty tight,” said Pembroke. “My business finds it hard to move our product around Europe, and we have been seeking legal advice to back us up.”

“Oh yes, a good honest man like yourself—they will go after you and your business,” mocked Carnot. “Not all the illegals. Damn it, Mr. Pembroke, I offer my services to you. I have forty years of legal experience in import-export, and I can help you out. I don’t have many other clients, so I can focus solely on you.”

“Well, Monsieur Carnot, I would be happy to discuss terms,” smiled Pembroke. “Where is your office?”

“I don’t have one. You will have to come to my home in the 16th arrondissement,” replied Carnot.

“That sounds fine,” Pembroke agreed.

“Excellent,” Carnot said, his mood lifting slightly. “Shall we say tomorrow afternoon?”

“That works for me,” Pembroke replied, extending his hand. “I look forward to it.”

The next day, Pembroke called at a large house with sprawling gardens and was shown in by an old maid. Monsieur Carnot, the only other occupant of the house, greeted him. Dressed in a tweed cardigan, Carnot had evidently been gardening but now took the time to show Pembroke around the house. Books were piled everywhere, giving the place a somewhat ramshackle feel. Pembroke couldn’t help but feel a little guilty at having been the cause of Carnot’s fall from grace, though he consoled himself with the thought that Carnot’s racism might have balanced the scales of karma.

Carnot put on a pair of large, old glasses and began reading through the accounts of Pembroke’s company. As he did, the incongruous sight of a young girl appeared in the doorway. She was red-haired, with brown eyes, tall and slim at about five feet seven inches, and had an athletic figure. She wore just a t-shirt and tiny hot pants.

“Oh, Claire, for heaven’s sake, put some clothes on and don’t embarrass my client!” shouted Carnot.

“Sorry, Grandpa,” smirked Claire. She winked at Pembroke, who smiled back.

“I’m sorry, this isn’t very professional,” flustered Carnot. “That is Claire, my granddaughter. She is staying here because my son, her father, died in a motorcycle accident a few years ago, and her mother has decided she would prefer to go off backpacking by herself somewhere in Asia.”

Pembroke nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Carnot sighed, “Thank you. It’s been difficult, but we manage. Now, where were we?” He adjusted his glasses and focused back on the documents.

Pembroke excused himself to use the bathroom, and on the way there, he bumped into Claire again.

“You another big-shot drug trafficker?” laughed Claire.

“Heavens no, I merely transport animal feed.”

“Haha,” giggled Claire, her eyes locking onto his, her teeth biting her lip. “It’s okay, my grandpa doesn’t really need the money; he needs the work more. He won’t tell the police. It’s a game to him, helping you get away with it.”

“Young lady,” Pembroke raised his eyebrow, “that is no way to talk to a legitimate businessman.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” flirted Claire, still in her hot pants, her t-shirt so baggy he could see right down it, almost showing off her breasts. “Are you going to spank me?”

“Maybe later,” winked Pembroke as he pushed past her, now a little more nervous about what Carnot thought about his accounts.

He had also noticed the telltale self-harm scars all over Claire’s arms, which, for a man of Pembroke’s inclinations, were like a homing signal.

Returning to the study, Pembroke found Carnot looking troubled. “I’m sorry again about Claire. She has psychiatric issues, self-harm, suicide attempts. I try to keep her here, but she disappears at all hours. I can only pray she grows out of it,” said Carnot as they concluded matters.

“I understand, Monsieur Carnot. And I am happy to start a retainer with you. I also have another favor to ask. It would be for a charity close to my heart, pro bono, but of course, my fees will match the work you need for them.”

“Certainly,” said Carnot.

“Well, it is a refugee charity,” Pembroke began, seeing Carnot’s expression sour. “But for genuine victims of human trafficking.”

“Oh, in that case, of course, I would be delighted to help!” smiled Carnot. “Just tell me what you want.” The old man seemed in a much kinder mood now, especially having agreed to a generous retainer.

As Pembroke walked out of the house, Clare came down again, having changed into a hoodie with nothing underneath that he could see, smiling as she came down to wave him off. “Hopefully see you again, Mr. Pembroke,” she said, hugging him and pressing a slip of paper into his hand.

He read it as he walked to his Uber.

“Clare - call me x KIK - PetiteFleurClare”

Miriam sighed as Mrs. Al-Haraz approached the cell, calling her name, dressed in a blue maxi dress. “Don’t you pout at me!” snarled the Yemeni woman as she slapped Miriam’s bottom while walking past. “Mr. Fischer needs you again!”

They walked side by side out of the hall and towards Konrad’s study. He was staring at the screen but lit up when he saw the naked figure of Miriam enter. “Do your work, Miriam,” Mrs. Al-Haraz snarled into her ear. “Let’s see if we can trap this bitch. Can you imagine, a fucking lesbian?” she spat in disgust, while simultaneously fondling Miriam’s breasts, cupping her face, and French-kissing her before strolling away.

Konrad spun around in his chair, displaying that he was wearing nothing but a smile and an erection. “Let’s get to work, Miriam,” he said, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

The following morning, at the elegant Café de la Paix, Pembroke strolled inside wearing a tailored Armani charcoal grey suit, paired with a crisp white shirt and a deep burgundy tie. He was there to meet Iranian businessman, Mr. Ali Reza, a man he had thought was only interested in sports betting and who often appeared as an avuncular character in interviews he had seen.

“Ah, Mr. Pembroke, you are a hard man to get hold of. Perhaps you are in demand?” smiled Mr. Reza.

Pembroke relaxed, sipping his coffee. “It is my products which are in demand, Mr. Reza, not I,” he said modestly. “I merely facilitate their transfer from the world out there,” he gestured to the streets, “to my client’s possession.”

“I have some very nefarious friends, Mr. Pembroke,” Reza smiled. “I would not be here with you if I thought you were not useful to me.”

At that moment, a waitress approached their table. She had sleek black hair tied up in a bun and dark, captivating eyes. Her slim figure was accentuated by a fitted blouse and a pencil skirt that hugged her curves perfectly.

“Bonjour, messieurs,” she said, her voice smooth and inviting. “May I take your order?”

Pembroke glanced at Reza before turning his attention back to the alluring waitress. “Is it too early for some whiskey?” he replied, his eyes lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary.

She smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Pour vous, monsieur, jamais trop tôt,” she replied. “I’ll bring it right away.”

“How much do you think that order would cost?” Reza smiled, watching the girl walk away.

“Well,” Pembroke smiled back. “That particular product will have to be collected first, then poured into a glass, and transported to our table, just ready to drink. I think the collection of the product would be a substantial addition to the price, considering there might be well-stocked products ready to be poured into your glass.” He winked.

Reza chuckled, catching the subtext. “Indeed, Mr. Pembroke, quality always comes at a price.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “You know, I do have some desire for particular ... things. It’s hard to have a wife, you know. Divorce would cost me a lot more than one of your products, which is why I think it’s a worthwhile investment. My wife wants to know where I am if I go to a club in Los Angeles or Ibiza, but if I have my own man cave in our home ... I guess, Mr. Pembroke, you know more about me than I do about you.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Reza, discretion is my trade. I feel better knowing you have a nice, secure place to stock my product. The very last thing I want to think about is having sloppy customers who let them out. They are to be treasured, you know. Soundproof too, you know how the fairer sex can be noisy.”

They both laughed as the waitress returned with the whiskies, bending over to give them both a tantalizing view of her tight behind in the skirt.

“Just how ruthless are you, Mr. Reza?” said Pembroke, his tone dropping to a sinister whisper. “It is distasteful to bring this into our negotiations, but necessary. We do not sell to saints and white knights. This kind of trade among distinguished gentlemen is dependent on strict secrecy, which ultimately depends on, shall we say, limited prospects for the girls Let’s just say they will never get too many wrinkles.”

Reza’s smile faded, replaced by a predatory grin. “Mr. Pembroke, I assure you, my reputation, my family, the lives of my children, and my business depend on it. What you don’t know about me would have me in prison for a long time already. You don’t get to where I am from where I was by playing nice or taking prisoners. And I recognize the eyes of someone who has squeezed the life out of another, Mr. Pembroke. Believe me,” he said, his voice dripping with malice.

Pembroke nodded, satisfied with the response. “Good. So do you have a type in mind?”

“Black, to start with, pure West African, not mixed race, beautiful,” said Reza casually as he drank his whiskey. “If my business goes well in the next six months, I might come back for more, and a particular girl I have had my eyes on. But for now, I want a black girl, it’s what I’ve been dreaming of.”

Pembroke breathed in, relishing the sudden eruption of true desire and the nature of their business in such smart surroundings. He surreptitiously looked around to check if anyone had heard.

“I can send you a video and photos of a girl, Ghanaian, who might be perfect for you.”

“Would I recognize her from the news? A missing girl?” Reza was curious.

“Well, until money and flesh pass hands, my discretion does not let me disclose too many details of the girl beyond physical attributes. And of course, whether there is no one after her, or a million policemen on the prowl, we caution that the same precautions should always be taken to secure the product.”

“Oh, of course,” laughed Reza. “Forgive me, you are right, and I applaud your discretion. You have a good reputation. Just tell me the age.”

“Twenty.”

“Excellent. Let me see her. I have the storage facilities for her. What about price?”

“May I inquire about the girl’s planned residence location? Transport can often be logistically complex and cost a lot of money.”

Reza breathed in. “I am at your mercy, Mr. Pembroke. You probably know I spend most of my time in my villa near Monaco. I would prefer she is delivered to my door.”

“That can be arranged,” smiled Pembroke. “Well, perhaps you would like to view her before suggesting a price.”

“You are right. Thank you,” Reza took the phone. “You know, this is extraordinary. I spend months haggling over a house, or a business, or even a vase, and here I will buy a human life for a small fortune based on a video and some pictures. But from what I have heard, your products have all been first class.”

The two sat in silence, sipping the whiskey as Reza viewed the video and pictures with the sophisticated clientele all around them chatting happily.

“Excellent, she is all I want. I can tell she is feisty, and the more the better. I need a challenge privately; I cannot hit my wife, but believe me, I will hit her,” grunted Reza. “Two hundred thousand, including transport.”

“Three hundred fifty thousand dollars including transport,” countered Pembroke nonchalantly.

“Two seventy-five, all inclusive?” suggested Reza.

Pembroke stuck out his hand. Reza grinned and grabbed it.

And just like that, Efua Agyeman was sold and her life traded away, while Pembroke ordered another whiskey to celebrate, flirting with the waitress while he and Reza smiled and chatted about the lewd things Reza planned to do to poor Efua.

While still under the influence of the whiskey, Pembroke began chatting on Kik with Clare. She mentioned she was bored, and he responded by saying it was a crime for a pretty girl like her to be bored in Paris.

She responded with an explicit picture. “Naughty girl,” Pembroke replied. “You promised you would give me a spanking, remember?” she messaged back with an innocent smile.