As Kevin finished packing his bags he picked up the suit he had worn last night from the floor where he had left it and started to fold it into the case. As he shook the jacket to straighten the wrinkles a packet fell from the inside pocket to the floor. It was the manila envelope he had been given by one of the men who had brought him back to the hotel last night. He had forgotten about it in his anxiety today to get to the hotel where Jean had stayed.
In feet, he thought dryly, I've forgotten almost everything about last night. Almost.
He opened it carefully not wanting to tear the thin onion skin sheets of paper inside. He unfolded the thin sheets and began reading a typewritten note on the first sheet. It said simply:
Kevin,
I am sorry about everything and the mistake we have made in our marriage. The last several days without you have shown me that there are better things in life than the simple mundane existence we accept at home. I have fallen in love with the life here and intend to stay forever. You will have to explain to my family why I have not returned with you. Please use the enclosed documents for that purpose and do not attempt to find me. I do not wish to be bothered by anyone from my old life again.
Jean. It was her note alright. He would recognize the signature anywhere. She must have written it last night after he had caught her with that Arab in the room. Well, she couldn't have put it more bluntly and she certainly had fallen in love with the life if her little exhibition last night with that dwarf was any indication. The Arab desk clerk's little disclosures of her side activities more than substantiated it. Well, if she wanted it that way, there was nothing he could do about it.
He flipped the page to the first attachment. It was obviously a death certificate from the Prefecture of Marseille made out in Jean's name. It also had all the pertinent data about her. The information could have only come from her. With it was attached a Certificate of Burial again certified by the Prefecture of Marseille. Cause of death was listed as accidental drowning at the local beach. Both were complete with official registration numbers.
Well, she certainly has thought of everything. He knew her old man would raise a stink when he got back and have half the private detectives in France here in a matter of hours if he just said she stayed here because she wanted to be left alone. He knew he could never tell the real story.
He reached for the phone and instructed the operator to get the local Prefecture Office in charge of issuing death certificates. He also instructed her to get an English speaking clerk on the line. After several minutes of gibberish in French a thick accented voice boomed into the line.
"Can I be of service, Monsieur?"
"Yes, you can," Kevin answered quickly. "I want to verify the correctness of a death certificate filed the last several days with your department. Can you do it for me without much trouble."
"Why of course, Monsieur, we have the files right here. If you will kindly give me the number of the filing or the name of the deceased I will fetch it immediately."
"The number is M64589. Dated yesterday. Do you need more?"
"No, that is fine, Monsieur. Just one moment." There was a muffled noise at the other end of the line as the clerk laid the phone on the desk and moved away from it. Kevin reached in his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, taking out and lighting it while he was waiting. He would see how efficient Jean had had her friends be. This would be the first thing her father would have checked. If it was verified then he would do nothing else. What could he do? One had to believe official documents. He tensed for a moment as he heard the phone being lifted back from the desk again.
"Monsieur?" the accented voice came back.
"Yes, I am here," Kevin replied.
"We have the number. It is for a Mrs. Kevin Taylor of the United States. No?"
"Yes, it is," Kevin answered surprised. "What is listed as the cause of death?"
"It is accidental drowning, Monsieur. A sad case. We do not like to lose tourists. It is bad publicity for our city and France is suffering enough from Monsieur DeGaulle's anti-American policy. Do you know Monsieur we have lost over twenty-five percent of our tourists because they refuse to come to a country that turns its back on its savior in two wars. It is a shame Monsieur. It is a shame."
"Yes, yes of course," Kevin replied, cutting him off. He was in no mood for a political discussion now. "Thank you for your help in this matter."
"Not at all, Monsieur, we are glad to be of service."
Kevin hung up the phone and walked to the window. He looked out over the blue of the Mediterranean for a long moment, thinking back to his arrival here yesterday and the optimism he had had about a reconciliation with Jean. It all seemed an eternity ago and yet only a few short hours had passed.
He folded the certificates and placed them carefully back in the envelope. Yes, he would use them as an explanation when he arrived home tomorrow. He had no other excuse. No one would believe him if he told the true story and besides it wouldn't be fair to Jean. She had a right to privacy if she wanted it and he would help her get it. It was the least he could do after letting her dowel in Paris at night when it all began so long ago.
The girl dropped the soft clean white robe from her trim well tapered body on the command of the short dark Arab standing in front of her. His name was Mahguib and he controlled with an iron hand the sale of all the fresh young European women that passed through the Algiers division of the organization. He had just received a fresh shipment of four girls from France this morning and already had them out on the platform for inspection by the prospective buyers. He could not hold them here very long because of the pressure of the authorities since the revolution. They did not forbid his trade completely as they knew the tribal chieftains who now supported the government would take a dim view of their supply of white girls being cut off and possibly revolt again. But they did require that he do it more discreetly than it had been done when the French were here. After all, this was one of the new socialist societies and must protect their world image as such in the United Nations and before the world press. One never knew when an Interpol agent might penetrate the mother organization and blow the whistle. If this happened, then the Socialist State needed a scapegoat and Mahguib knew very well who that scapegoat would be. A firing squad was the only acceptable penalty for disgracing the state and he did not have the slightest inclination for ending his term here on earth in that brutal manner.
"Now turn for the Emir, my dear," he coaxed sweetly to her. "Let him see the abundance of charms and treasures you have to offer."
Jean followed his commands as a well-trained show bitch. She had learned over the last several months that life was much more pleasant for her if she followed the orders she was given. Gamal had groomed her well for the role she was now to play for the remainder of her life. She had resisted his training the first several weeks, still hoping that Kevin would come to free her from the horrible degradations to which she was being subjected nightly. Finally, after a time, and seemingly endless doses of the aphrodisiac she had been introduced to the drug hashish. That, plus the final acceptance of the hopelessness of her position had made her a willing pupil for all the secrets of pleasure Gamal had taught her. She had learned well and had quickly become his favorite even up until the time he was forced to finally send her across the Mediterranean because of police pressure on his operation.
She looked down at the Arab chieftain studying her and with a sudden deft movement of her hands brought them up under her breasts, cupping them into twin rounded peaks of firm white flesh as she had been taught. She tweaked the nipples between her thumbs and forefingers and teased them into tiny hard duds that captured his eyes immediately. She could see a gleam of desire flicker momentarily through his face, and then turning to Mahguib, he raised three fingers in offer, each finger indicating a thousand American dollars. Mahguib shook his head in refusal.
"My dear, Emir, this is a fresh young American girl, almost a virgin. She is worth at least ten thousand dollars the way things are today. Come take a look here."
Mahguib led the old gentleman around behind the small circular stand on which Jean was standing. It was about three feet off the ground which made her buttocks even with the level of their eyes.
"Now, my dear, bend forward and let the chief see more of your treasures."
Jean bent over, spreading her legs about two feet apart on the stand. She could hear a slight gasp of approval from behind her as the chief looked straight up between her slightly spread legs.
"Now reach back and open it for him, dear. Let him see how tight you are."
Jean reached back with both hands around her buttocks, and looking back at the Sheik with a sweet seductive smile on her face, spread the lips of her vagina slowly and tantalizingly apart. The moist pink flesh of her tiny narrow slit became visible slowly as she gently parted the soft dark pubic hair covering the plane between her legs. Another gasp from behind and she saw the old Sheik raise seven fingers. Mahguib nodded his head in agreement. Jean was sold for the first time. She didn't realize it in the haze of the hashish they had fed her just before the sale but it was only the first in many to follow. Not all of them would be this easy or this pleasant and the price would drop with each further sale. But now, at this moment she was happy. She had fulfilled the first function she had been trained for, to be bought. Now, she must fill the second, to please her master. This she was also prepared for, the steady supply of hashish would insure that she remained so prepared.
She stepped down from the stand, replacing the robe about her shoulders and followed her new master from the room toward the exit. Mahguib had ordered that her things be sent to the car to avoid delay. She winced slightly at the bright desert sun that beat down outside while at the same time a thousand miles north in Europe a woman named Monique smiled sweetly at another young tourist boarding the Marseille Express. Soon, she too would be wincing in the desert sun as she followed her first faceless master off into nowhere.