Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 My War On Terrorism

   by sourdough

   ------ Synopsis: The daughter of an important Osama bin Laden supporter
is kidnapped in London.
Codes: MF rape dru het

   The woman was dressed in the traditional garb of a conservative Moslem
Arab.  Clad in black from head to toe, she was seated on a simple kitchen
chair in an otherwise empty room.  The curtains were drawn and there was no
hint of light from beyond.  Even her face was covered with the exception of
her left eye.  Her eye was dark brown.  Her lash was long and thick and her
eyebrow was an elegant arch.  The little bit of skin that showed was of a
light olive complexion.  Yet, what showed was enough to hint of the beauty
of this exotic Middle Easterner hidden behind her veil.  A single light lit
her features.  She was facing a video camera mounted on a tripod.  The
camera was operating and the woman began to speak.

   "My name is Aisha Mustafa.  I am the eldest daughter of Abdul Waahib
Fawaz Mustafa.  On the 15th of September 2001, I was abducted while on a
visit to London.  I was blindfolded, drugged and transported to this
location.  I do not know if I am still in England.  I do not know the fate
of my companions.  I do know that this is not a kidnap for ransom.  The
apparent reason for my abduction is that I am the daughter of a man who
aided and abetted the crimes of one Osama bin Laden."

   Who will ever forget the images of September 11, 2001?  I was in London
at the time.  I sat in front of the television screen in my hotel room and
watched time after time the video of jet aircraft slamming into the sides
of the World Trade Center towers and their subsequent collapse.  My first
reaction after the shock began to wear off was to call my office in New
York.  I didn't have my offices in the WTC but I had friends and colleagues
who did.  I finally got a hold of my secretary, but she didn't have much
more information than I did.  My second reaction was to book a flight home,
but air transportation to the States was already grinding to a halt.  I was
stuck in London for a while.

   I wandered the streets of London the next day, unwilling to enjoy myself
in a city I really loved.  That afternoon I saw a Middle Easterner walking
toward me in a fashionable section of the city.  He was well dressed in a
western style suit.  I thought I recognized him.  I wanted to greet the man
if I could just remember his name.  He obviously didn't recognize me.  The
man just kind of looked through me and continued on his way, eventually
walking through the entrance of one of London's most luxurious hotels.  My
curiosity was aroused.  A discreet inquiry and some cash got me the
information I wanted.  The man was unimportant but his employer was.  Abdul
Waahib Fawaz Mustafa was a big wig in Arab financial circles.  I had met
him once.  The man I recognized was one of his bodyguards.  I was anxious
to do business with Mustafa but I was warned off by a good friend who had
better knowledge of Arab politics than I did.  He was suspected of
financing terrorists and money laundering, but his considerable influence
protected him well.  One of his valued clients was none other than Osama
bin Laden, already being named as the main suspect in the September 11
attacks.

   My sorrow and anger wasn't far from the surface.  I immediately began to
entertain murderous thoughts.  I would obtain a weapon and kill Mustafa,
even if I had to sacrifice my own life in the process.  I've never
committed a serious crime, unless you want to count cheating on my taxes,
but anyone can be provoked to violence under a certain set of
circumstances.

   On further inquiry I found out that Mustafa was still in Saudi Arabia,
quite safe from my vengeance.  Apparently, one of his daughters was in
London for a shopping trip and was being escorted by two bodyguards, a
chaperone and a maid.  I quickly dismissed my plan.  There was no sense in
risking my life trying to kill a family member.  She was probably an
innocent anyway.  If truth be told, I guess I was feeling a bit cowardly
right about then, also.  I walked on and finally made my way into a working
class pub some distance away.

   I have one of those faces, I guess, that instantly tell everyone I'm a
Yank.  Usually a stranger, and a foreigner to boot, isn't made to feel at
home in the small neighborhood pubs by the locals.  But the recent tragedy
seemed to change things.  I was instantly engaged in conversation and
expressions of sympathy as if I had suffered a personal loss.  I intended
to just have a short drink and then take a cab back to my hotel.  My plans
changed when the other customers started ordering me drinks and it seemed
impolite to refuse.

   Two tall, muscular men seemed particularly interested in talking to me.
They introduced themselves to me as Derek and Nigel (not their real names).
Derek and Nigel were both members of the London Fire Brigade and they
wanted me to take messages back to New York, expressing their sympathy and
support to the New York firefighters.

   As the drinks flowed, the conversation turned to the topic of vengeance
and what they would do if they had an opportunity to deal with Osama. 
Being well primed with alcohol, I found myself babbling about my encounter
with Mustafa's bodyguard and my abortive plan to execute an important
supporter of Osama bin Laden.  They listened politely and told me they
wished I could have pulled the plan off.  A while later, I took my leave. I
was poured into a cab and taken back to my hotel.  I awoke the next morning
with a splitting headache.

   The next couple of days were spent sending and receiving emails to and
from my secretary.  I kept the television off.  I was already overloaded
with attack coverage.  Yet, the tragedy never left my thoughts.  I started
thinking about life before September 11.  I'm a news junky.  Newspapers,
magazines, radio, television and the Internet are all sources for me.  I
was sick of reading and hearing about the saga of Congressman Gary Condit
and the missing Chandra Levy.  I had been wishing something would happen
that would knock that jerk off the front page.  Well, I got my wish.  Now I
was wishing I could take that wish back.  My daydreaming was cut short by a
knock on the door.  I wasn't expecting anybody and the maid service had
already been through.  I was certainly surprised when I opened my door to
Derek and Nigel.

   "Fancy a drink, mate?"

   "Er, uh.  It's kind of too early in the day for me guys but I'll see
what I can do for you.  Won't you come in?" I was bewildered by their visit
but I didn't want to be rude.  Here were a couple of men I'd shared some
drinks and conversation with and now they were on my doorstep.

   "What can I get you?" I asked.  I didn't have any booze in my room but
the room service in this hotel was fairly decent.

   "Nothing right now, thanks," said Derek.  "We were just curious about
what you thought of the news."

   "Which news is that?" Now I was all ears and as curious as hell.  Had
they caught that bin Laden bastard?

   "Someone's gone and kidnapped the daughter of that Mustafa chap you were
talking about the other night."

   "What?  Fantastic!" Somebody had thought along the lines I had.  But
then, they had had the guts and wherewithal to get the job done.  "I hope
they turn the bitch into a dockside whore and send the pictures to her old
man," I added.  They laughed at my obvious excitement.

   "At first we thought you were the culprit and we wanted you to take us
to have a look at her," said Nigel.

   "I wish.  I'd give you two first crack at her.  After me, of course." I
grinned at that thought.  I was getting a vicarious thrill, thinking about
what Mustafa must be going through.  I have a teenage daughter myself from
a brief marriage.

   "I assume the police are looking for her?"

   "Of course," said Derek.  "The wogs are making a fuss and the police
have been searching high and low for her."

   "Well, this certainly calls for a drink.  Lots of them.  And I'm
buying."

   "That's better news than we brought you," Derek joked.

   I was all for going down to the hotel bar and ordering Champagne but my
new friends insisted that I go with them to a private club that catered to
firefighters and their guests.  I was all for that and we headed for the
nearest Underground station.

   I followed my new friends willingly, talking and joking with them.  I
barely noted the station where we disembarked.  We came out in a section of
the city that I was completely unfamiliar with.  I thought the neighborhood
looked rather seedy but then became instantly ashamed of myself for my
snobbish attitude about the surroundings.  These men, after all, were the
London counterparts of the men who had died at the WTC, trying to save
others.  I certainly had no right to judge where they chose to hang out.  I
wasn't apprehensive until they steered me into a darkened alley, littered
with rubbish and smelling of stale piss.  Derek and Nigel ceased talking
and smiling.  Oh shit!  I'd been led down the garden path.  Were they
really firefighters?  I'd only taken their words for it and now it was more
likely they were muggers or worse.  Nigel seemed to sense that I was ready
to bolt.  He put a hand on my shoulder and I knew I'd play hell trying to
get away from them.

   "We're almost there," said Nigel, not really trying to reassure me.  We
reached an unmarked door in the alley.  Derek unlocked and opened the door.
He motioned me in.

   "Listen guys.  I don't have much money on me but...  "

   "Shut up and get going," Derek said coldly.  Games are over, I thought.
I'm 5' 10" and I weigh 180 pounds but I felt like a midget next to these
two.  There I was, a seasoned New Yorker, being suckered like a child.  I
had no choice but to go along with whatever they had planned for me.  I
just hoped I would get out of it alive.

   The door opened to a flight of stairs.  A bare light bulb at the top was
our only source of light.  As I trudged up the stairs, I idly wondered why
I hadn't been waylaid the evening I met them.  Too many witnesses,
probably. There was a door at the top of the stairs.  Derek knocked once
and entered.  I followed with Nigel close behind.  We were in a small but
cozy flat.  There was a middle-aged woman seated at a kitchen table.  She
was reading a book.  The radio was on and I could hear light jazz music. 
The woman looked up long enough to nod and then went back to her reading.

   "In there," said Derek.  He pointed to another door.  With the presence
of a woman, I wasn't nearly as frightened as I been a moment before but I
still wasn't sure I was going to get out in one piece.  I opened the door
and peered in.  It was a small bedroom, sparsely furnished with a wardrobe
and chair besides the double bed.  I didn't see anything else.  I took a
deep breath and walked in.  Was I going to be held prisoner here?  Derek
flipped a light on and I caught a slight movement on the bed.

   "There she is," said Derek.

   "There who is?"

   "Mustafa's daughter.  Her name's Aisha."

   My heart leaped to my throat.  Now I was even more scared than I was
before.  Half hoping it was a joke I walked over and looked down.  A pair
of dark eyes looked back at me.  They were filled with both fright and
anger.  A young woman was tied hand and foot.  There was a gag in her
mouth. I looked back at Derek.  Nigel had joined him.  They were grinning
ear to ear and looking quite pleased with themselves.

   "How?  Why?" I was so stunned they were the only words I could get out
of my mouth.  I was suddenly involved in a kidnapping with international
repercussions.  I began to imagine myself serving years and years in an
English prison for this crime.  And that prospect would only be possible if
I was very lucky.  Mustafa and his henchmen would certainly want to kill
anyone even remotely involved in the kidnapping of his daughter.

   "It was actually pretty easy," explained Derek.  "Somebody called in a
bomb threat at Aisha's hotel.  The threat had to be investigated, of
course, and the hotel evacuated.  While this was happening, somebody yelled
something about these Arabs being armed.  Naturally, everyone thought they
were terrorists and several lads wrestled them down.  The police took the
Arabs away for questioning.  After that, it was pretty easy to separate the
girl from the rest of her friends what with all the confusion.  She sort of
fell into our hands.  As for why we did it, you know as well as I do."

   I was dumbfounded.  It sounded like a plot from some farce but they had
pulled it off.  I wondered how many of these "lads" were cohorts of theirs.

   "Derek, please listen to me," I begged.  "This girl's father plays
rough. We're all going to be killed if you don't release this girl
immediately."

   "We'll take our chances," said Derek.  "We thought we'd invite you in
because it was you that gave us the idea.  It's apparent that you don't
want to be involved.  We'll take you back to your hotel.  As long as you
keep your mouth shut, we'll be all right."

   "I promise I won't give you away but I still don't understand why you're
risking your lives for something that happened in the States."

   "It's obvious you don't understand, friend," said Nigel.  "Firemen
around the world feel a kinship to each other no matter where they're from.
What those terrorists did, they did to us also."

   Nigel's explanation made sense to me on an emotional level but I was
still worried about their safety.  I heard muffled sounds behind me.  I
turned around and saw Aisha giving me a pleading look.

   "May I talk to her?"

   "Go ahead," said Nigel.

   I sat down on the bed beside her and removed her gag.

   "Oh, Allah!  Save me, please!" she whispered.

   "Just listen right now," I said.  "I'm trying to get you released.  If I
succeed, will you promise to tell your father that it was just some kind of
misunderstanding and forget our faces?" I didn't know if I could pull it
off but I wanted to try.

   "I will promise anything if I am released unharmed.  Why did they abduct
me in the first place?"

   "Well, it seems your father financed some people who might have had
something to do with the recent terrorist attacks in the United States."

   "My father, like all Arab people, supports the legitimate Palestinian
cause against the Israeli occupiers.  He deplores the unquestioning support
given by the American government to the Israelis but I am sure he would
condemn what happened in your country."

   "I hope so, miss.  But I don't want to discuss politics right now.  Just
promise me that you'll agree to my proposal."

   "I will agree to anything so long as I am released unharmed," the girl
assured me.

   "Good," I said.  "Now listen to...  "

   "When I am released those two sons of camels and that she camel in the
next room will die, Allah willing." Aisha didn't really say that to me
directly.  It was as if she had unintentionally given voice to her private
thoughts.  The girl quickly realized her mistake when she saw my astounded
look.  Whispering to me she said, "My father will reward you for helping
me."

   "I'll see what I can do," I said as I slipped the gag back over her
mouth.  I turned back toward Derek and Nigel.  I signaled to both of them
and we left the room.

   "You're not going to kill her, are you?"

   "No, of course not," said Derek.  "We kind of like that other suggestion
of yours.  Turning her into a dockside whore and sending the pictures to
her daddy sounds like a real treat for everyone, don't you think?"

   I nodded my head in agreement.  Except for murder, I didn't much care
what Aisha's fate was.  I reasoned that it was time for a little give back
for the terrorists and their supporters.  Aisha was still an innocent as
far as I was concerned but there was thousands of dead, injured and missing
back in the States who were innocents also.

   "How are you going to do it?" I asked.  I'd read dozens of books and
stories in the 'nice girl trained to be a slut' genre but I certainly
wouldn't rely on any of that trash as a guide.  Brainwashing her would be a
long process and I certainly wouldn't have the time to be involved.  As
soon as the airlines were flying again, I'd have to book a flight back to
New York.

   "That's where Mrs.  Ryan comes in," said Derek.  The woman nodded to me
but didn't say anything.  "She's an old pro at this.  She's agreed to come
out of retirement to help us.  By the way, she has a good friend missing at
the World Trade Center."

   "I'm sorry," I said.  Here was someone who had suffered a real personal
loss.  From what I'd been hearing, there wasn't a lot of hope for the
missing to be found alive.

   "Thanks," she said.  "And thanks for giving me a chance to get back at
those bastards.  We'll soon find out what she's made of.  I've never
recruited a completely unwilling girl so it'll be a new experience for me
also."

   Mrs.  Ryan was a handsome woman in her late 40's.  I was told she ran an
exclusive club for several years before retiring but never forgot the art
of seduction whether it was a potential customer or a prospective recruit.

   Derek and Nigel had to report to duty and excused themselves.  I was to
remain in the flat until their return.

   "I understand you're flying back to America soon."

   I nodded.  "As soon as possible, actually.  I'm afraid I'll have to miss
out on all of the fun."

   "Not necessarily," she said smiling.  "There are some shortcuts we can
use.  I have an effective drug that will lower her defenses and inhibitions
a bit.  The only thing is that you'll have to watch where you put your
prick or your tongue.  She'll still have the presence of mind to bite if
she wants to.  Also I should watch out for a swift kick to your family
jewels if I were you."

   I had expected to be a spectator but I guess I was going to be an active
participant.  It made me apprehensive and excited at the same time and not
feeling reluctant at all.

   I entered Aisha's room with a bottle of water laced with the drug.  As
far as Aisha knew, I was still trying to get her released.  I sat down on
the bed beside her.  I pulled off her gag and untied her hands.

   "Allah be praised.  Am I being released?"

   "Not yet.  I'm still working on it.  Would you like some water?" I
handed her the bottle and she looked at it suspiciously.  Was her woman's
intuition trying to tell her something?

   "You'll need to keep up your strength in case we have to make a run for
it," I added.  "I'll try to get you some food too."

   "Thank you," Aisha said finally and began to drink.  I guess her thirst
was getting the better of her.  She took a few sips and then a few
swallows. I nodded encouragingly, knowing the drug would soon be doing its
job.  I untied her legs, which allowed Aisha to sit up and stretch her
legs. This had been as much freedom as she'd been allowed since her
kidnapping.  Aisha smiled gratefully.  It was such a pretty smile.  I found
myself liking her and feeling sorry for her.  I fought off my attack of
conscience and waited for Mrs.  Ryan to arrive.

   I didn't wait long.  Mrs.  Ryan walked in and I moved out of her way so
she could sit beside Aisha.  Aisha's fear and apprehension returned but
Mrs. Ryan didn't seem to notice.  She gave Aisha a winning smile.

   "She's beautiful, isn't she?"

   "Absolutely," I said.

   "Have you been in contact with my father?  When am I going to be
released?"

   "Oh, didn't anyone tell you?" Mrs.  Ryan asked.  "You're not going
anywhere.  We have plans for you."

   Aisha glared at me, realizing that I wasn't going to help her.  I just
shrugged my shoulders.

   "My father will pay you much money if I am released unharmed."

   "And will he bring my friend back from the dead?"

   "I do not understand," said Aisha looking puzzled.

   "It's easy enough to understand," said Mrs.  Ryan.  "He was at the World
Trade Center and now he's missing.  You probably saw coverage of those
buildings collapsing.  Do you think anyone will survive that?  I don't
think so.  Your father did business with those terrorists and now I'm going
to turn his daughter into a little whore."

   "Please!" Aisha begged.  "I am sorry about your friend.  I know nothing
about my father's business.  I am just a woman." Tears were forming in her
eyes.

   "And a very lovely woman, too," said Mrs.  Ryan.  "Did you know she
dresses like a whore?"

   "Indeed?" I was surprised by the sudden change in direction this
conversation was taking.

   "That is a lie!" shouted Aisha.  She blushed hotly, obvious even with
her olive complexion.

   "Is it?  You forget that I'm the one who searched you for weapons.  I'm
the one who discovered that little cell phone hidden in your robes.  We'd
have been in a pretty fix if you'd been able to call for help on that
thing. She's naked underneath that robe now.  I removed every intimate
garment she was wearing.  I saw the labels.  I know the boutique.  It's the
chic place to shop for Parisian courtesans."

   "Please!" sobbed Aisha, hanging her head in shame.  "No one was meant to
see that.  Not even my husband." Apparently the bomb scare had caught her
in the middle of her dress-up game and she hadn't had time to change.

   "Your husband?  Darling, I didn't know you're married."

   "I am to be married within the year.  My parents have chosen a husband
for me.  But no man will marry me if I am shamed."

   "So little Aisha was playing dress-up as a whore, perhaps her secret
desire.  Little did she know that her wish would come true and so soon. 
Listen, darling.  I know a place where the girls play dress-up every day.
Their customers love it.  You can dress up as a harem girl.  No?  Is that
too stereotypical for an Arab?  How about dressing as a milkmaid?  Yes,
that might work.  Only you won't be milking cows.  You'll be milking the
bulls.  And not just with your hands.  You'll use your cunt, your mouth,
your arse and even your lovely titties to draw out the bulls' virile
sperm."

   "No!  Please!  Just kill me.  Will that satisfy you?  I want to be pure
when I meet Allah and the Prophet." Aisha tried to run but Mrs.  Ryan
caught her easily.  Her struggles were futile.  The drug was doing its job.
Mrs.  Ryan held Aisha in her arms as if she was a child.

   "Sorry, no," said Mrs.  Ryan, not unkindly.  "No martyrs allowed."

   Mrs.  Ryan started to run her hands over Aisha's body.  Aisha began to
mutter in her native language.  She must have been praying because I caught
several references to Allah.  Aisha pushed listlessly at Mrs.  Ryan but to
no real effect.

   "This is an abomination," Aisha protested.

   "Don't worry, dear.  I'm not a Lesbian.  I'm just getting you ready for
the prick which you'll soon be taking between your pretty legs."

   Aisha looked at me quickly.  I think she finally realized she was about
to be raped.  I leered suggestively at her.  My prick was at full staff and
ready to get into action although not yet out of my trousers.  Mrs.  Ryan
continued to caress Aisha who I think was beginning to lose the battle with
her feelings.

   "Do not allow him to touch me," Aisha begged.  "Please!  Only my husband
may touch me."

   "Listen, darling," Mrs.  Ryan said patiently.  "It was your fate to be
born female.  Females are built to fuck and have babies.  Everything else
is just window dressing.  You'll soon discover that a prick is just a
prick. It will matter little if the prick's owner is your husband or a
stranger or whether he is Moslem or infidel.

   "However, if you prefer a husband, we shall be glad to oblige you." Mrs.
Ryan motioned me over and I sat down on the side of the bed opposite her
with Aisha between us.

   "In the absence of parental, religious or civil authority, I shall
perform the nuptials myself," Mrs.  Ryan announced.  She looked at me
gravely.

   "Do you take this woman to be your wife?"

   "Yes," I croaked.

   "Do you take this man to be your husband?"

   "No.  Please, no," Aisha cried.

   "I now pronounce you man and wife.  You may kiss the bride."

   "This cannot be," Aisha whined as she sought to avoid my kiss.

   "A Moslem once told me that everything is as Allah wills."

   "No!" shouted Aisha.

   "You question the teachings of the Koran?"

   Mrs.  Ryan's question surprised me but it absolutely paralyzed Aisha.  I
finally realized that questioning the Koran was to court a death sentence
in an Islamic country.  I'm sure Mrs.  Ryan was no Islamic scholar but she
took advantage of Aisha's confusion by reaching for the hem of her robe and
exposing her to the waist.  Her hand dove between Aisha's thighs and began
to caress her vulva.

   The combination of the drug, Mrs.  Ryan's badgering and now the physical
caresses had taken its toll.  Aisha no longer struggled.  She was still
crying but Aisha couldn't concentrate on her prayers because she kept being
distracted by Mrs.  Ryan's caresses.

   "Your bride is almost ready for you.  Do you want protection or do you
want to take her bare?"

   "B-bare," I stuttered and began to take off my clothes.

   "Did you hear that darling?  Your new husband wants to give you a baby
right away.  He must love you very much.  I know men who will pay a lot of
money for the privilege of sucking the milk from your tits after your baby
comes.  I'll have one tittie tattooed with the Union Jack and the other
with the Stars and Stripes.  Won't that be nice?"

   Aisha only moaned in response.  I don't she realized what Mrs.  Ryan was
saying anymore.  Mrs.  Ryan finally nodded to me and I got into position.
Aisha had closed her eyes to shut out my nudity and I took her by surprise.
She didn't become alert and begin to struggle until my prick head had
already nudged aside her labia.  By then it was too late for Aisha.  Mrs.
Ryan's caresses had lubed her up pretty well.  It only took a few strong
lunges before I broke the girl's cherry and was fully inside her.  Mrs. 
Ryan's hand stifled Aisha's screams of pain and distress.

   Gosh!  Aisha's vaginal muscles were already trying to suck the sperm out
of me.  I tried hard to calm down.  I wanted this first fuck to last.  Not
that I cared for Aisha's pleasure, I just wanted to extend my own.  The
only thing that worked was to think again about those jet aircraft slamming
into the World Trade Center towers.  Now I was angry.

   "Put your arms and legs around me," I demanded.  Aisha obeyed as if in
shock.  That actually disappointed me.  I wanted this girl to be aware of
everything that was happening to her.  Oh well, one can't have everything.
I proceeded to fuck her.  With every stroke I imagined that I wasn't only
hurting this girl, I was hurting her father, Osama, the Al Qaeda terrorist
network and anything or anybody else connected to the September 11
terrorist attacks.  I didn't last for more than a couple of minutes before
I sent a large dose of my sperm on a journey through Aisha's reproductive
system.  I stayed in the flat with Aisha and Mrs.  Ryan for two more days
before Derek and Nigel showed up and escorted me back to my hotel.

   The tape mentioned at the beginning of my narrative was recorded several
weeks after I returned to New York.  Mrs.  Ryan had obviously done a good
job in breaking Aisha's will to resist.  It is mostly a scripted rant
condemning terrorists and their supporters.  The very end of it might be of
interest.  Aisha has just removed her veil, revealing her face to the
camera.

   "As you can see, father, it is really your daughter, Aisha.  Now I shall
show you something that I thought no man except my husband would ever see."
Her robe dropped as Aisha stood up.  The camera pulled back to take in all
her feminine glory.  The Arab beauty was clad in nothing.

   "Father, I know that I have been disowned even as you watch this tape.
It will not be that easy.  I have known shame and I shall know more shame.
Each time I am humiliated you and the entire world will know about it. 
Copies of this tape are being sent to individuals who will happily
distribute it to others.  Other tapes will be made and distributed as each
humiliation is heaped upon me.  Now you know my fate.  My body belongs to
the infidel and any other with a few pounds to spare.  I have prayed to
almighty Allah to spare me further humiliation by taking my life.  It is
not to be.  Think of me the next time you deal with Osama bin Laden or men
of his ilk." The tape ended there.

   No new tapes were recorded.  Derek and Nigel actually became quite fond
of Aisha.  They even offered to release her.  She declined because it would
mean death for her at the hands of her family for the dishonor brought to
them.  Aisha thinks she's pregnant.  It's not clear yet which of us is the
father.  Mrs.  Ryan's friend eventually turned up among the living.

   The other news is that the distribution of the tape had the desired
effect.  Mustafa lost face and business as a result.  The U.S., British and
Saudi governments all condemned the kidnapping but that didn't stop them
from beginning investigations into Mustafa's business dealings.  Rumor has
it that Saudi authorities will use Mustafa as a scapegoat to show that they
are serious about the war on terrorism.

   I swear I will never get involved in something like this again.  Well,
unless it was one of Osama bin Laden's daughters and she could be turned
into a fuck toy for New York City firefighters.  I guess I can dream about
it.  At least I have one victory in my war on terrorism.
   ------ The End ------