It was after dark when DesirЋe finally arrived at the Buchanan property. All the way up she alternately cried and pouted about what had happened today. She felt so filthy because of what the men had done to her, and she felt even worse because she had responded with her whole being, had welcomed their cocks and their hot ejaculations into her tender pussy. She had let them and she had enjoyed it. So she cried and hated herself and sobbed and streaked her make-up. And then she remembered that Mark had not made love to her lately and that if he had given her the love she needed she wouldn't have responded that way to those three evil men this afternoon. Yes, it was partly Mark's fault. So she pouted.
And then she cried again. She had done something terrible, as bad or worse than what she had done at Clete's office, on his hard desk, with that horrible, disgusting videotape playing. The tape she had stolen and destroyed because it could be used to destroy Mark's political career and her life with him.
But now, there was another tape, or tapes, and those young men had them, and the danger was renewed. Of her, fucking wildly with two men at once that could definitely destroy Mark, and she was frightened to death that Buchanan would find out. She was a liability to her beloved husband now and if Buchanan found out somehow it would put everything in the toilet. She went over all the possible ways of dealing with the situation. Mark could not know, no way. No way could he find out that she had had sexual intercourse with two young men at once and then with Clete as well. But if he found out how she had been unfaithful, he would demand to know all the details, which were much too nauseating to contemplate.
However, perhaps Sid Buchanan, the fixer par excellence, or his wife Helen would be able to help. He would not demand details and she was sure that he would consider it expedient to help cover the matter up rather than expose it to Mark. No, as a political manipulator, he would not do or say anything to break up the young couple. Yes, he would be a friend to her.
Had she had total recall of what had happened last time she had been in this house, she would never have considered bringing her problem to Buchanan, but her own doctor's secret hypnotic suggestion had wiped clear memory of her last experience here from her mind. She had no memory of that that came to her mind right now, so she rationalized that she could trust him.
DesirЋe drove up the circular drive and parked in front of the wide verandah. The scarlet bougainvillea entwined around the latticework. The statue was of a small, brightly clad Negro jockey, forever offering a ring to tie one's horse's reins to. DesirЋe passed the statue and stepped to the front door.
Buchanan's third wife Helen answered the door. She was dressed in a striped silk sheath with a white leather belt around her slender waist. She was so elegant and held a cooling drink in her hand. She said, smiling, "Come in, DesirЋe. So good of you to come."
"Thank you, Helen." DesirЋe stepped in the house.
"The festivities are in full swing out in back," Helen continued, walking down the hall. DesirЋe followed, clutching her purse nervously. They went from the hall through a sitting room filled with furniture of the Empire period, then through a pantry and out into the backyard. All around, people of wealth and power were enjoying themselves with food, drink, and conversation.
The backyard was mottled with shafts of sunshine intermingling with areas of shade. The courtyard behind the huge mansion was covered with more lattice, hardy grape and honeysuckle vines growing around and through the slats. Helen sat down in a lawn chair and waved her hand to the one next to it, indicating for DesirЋe to sit down as well. The glass-topped table before them had a platter of canapЋs on it, a condiment dish piled with pickles and olives, and an earthenware pitcher filled with wine.
DesirЋe first looked at the food. She wasn't at all hungry, but she knew that she would have to eat so as to not offend Helen. Then she looked out on the broad expanse of lawn and thought how peaceful, how serene and healthy it was. Not at all like the sickness that pervaded her inner being at that moment and made her quiver with a desire to die. She was suddenly brought back to reality by a gentle touch of fingers on her shoulder.
Startled, she looked around at Helen, who was frowning slightly with concern. The wife of her husband's boss was saying, "… haven't heard a word I've been saying, have you?"
Miserably, DesirЋe shook her head. "I'm… sorry, Helen."
"You haven't been yourself since you arrived. Aren't you feeling well? The flu perhaps?"
"No… no," came the choked response. "I'm fine. Really."
"No, you're not. I can tell, DesirЋe." There was a long pause, then, a silence that was louder than shouted words. DesirЋe didn't know what to say, how to begin, or if she even dared. She had had the courage to come, and she knew that Helen was indeed the friend she had hoped she would be, but now, confronted with the awful confession, she wasn't sure she had the strength. Helen was obviously baffled and unsure of what to say, but finally, the woman leaned forward and placed her manicured fingers over DesirЋe's and said: "I think you've got something you want to talk to me about. It's weighing heavily on you, DesirЋe. Tell me. Get it off your chest. It'll do you good."
"I… I," stammered DesirЋe, "I've been with another man."
"Really?" Helen sat back. "Another man, hmm?"
Was that a smile DesirЋe saw forming on Helen's lips? No, it couldn't be… but even if it was such an unexpected response, DesirЋe couldn't have stopped the torrent of words that now tumbled from her throat. The dam had been broken, and from her tortured soul came all of the gruesome details about her seduction. She left little out as she poured forth her agony to the other woman, and wept copious tears openly as she confessed.
DesirЋe could only refer to Clete as the sheriff, unable to speak his name much as ancient Jews were not allowed to utter the name of their God, the Nameless One. It was as if to name the man would bring him forth from the shadows of the evening. Nor could DesirЋe detail what perverted acts she had been forced to do with the two young abductors, glossing over it quickly. Above all, she was completely silent on the subject of her own arousal, of her apparent enjoyment of the systematic rape of her purity.
But everything else she placed before Helen Buchanan, like a horribly sculpted gargoyle complete of substance and shadow. The sex… the filming. Especially the filming, the rolling video cameras recording it all. Everything kept revolving, kept returning to the uses – the abuses – of the video camera.
When she was done, she dropped her head in a symbolic act of supplication, of awaiting judgment. Her blouse and skirt were wet with her tears, and her golden, bell-like voice was almost hoarse with her wracking sobs.
The first thing Helen did was to pour DesirЋe a glass of wine. "Here, drink this," she commanded, and even though the distraught young wife refused, she persevered and finally DesirЋe haltingly swallowed some of the ruby liquid. It did make her feel better, she had to admit, as she set the glass down.
Then Helen looked DesirЋe in the eye and said, "One thing more. Did you enjoy it?"
"Helen!" DesirЋe was taken full aback, her eyes wide with horror.
"I must know in order to get a full, clear perspective of the situation, DesirЋe. Forgive me for being so blunt, but it's only between us girls." She leaned forward. "Now… did you? Even a little bit?"
Blushing a color as scarlet as the bougainvillea out front, DesirЋe Denning first stared with frozen shock. Then, trembling and biting her lower lip, she squeezed her eyes shut and nodded affirmatively. There was no use trying to cover it up, no way in which she could bury the awful truth about herself, and it was harder to admit it to herself than to Helen.
"Yes," she moaned. "At… at first I loathed their… attentions. But… but in all honesty, I have to confess I… began to like it." She twisted in her chair, then looked at Helen, wetness blurring her vision. "But only a little bit, Helen," she lied. "Only a little bit, and when it was over and I'd collected my senses, I was sick about it!"
"Yes, yes, I understand," Helen said in a soothing voice. She then poured herself a little more wine and sighed. She thought of the best way of handling the matter, of trying to calm the near hysterical girl so that a greater crisis would be averted. She could almost picture the scandal it would cause if it was publicly known, and she had the inherent knowledge of a shrewd woman that such publicity could easily spread to herself and Sid, and Sid's political machine, for DesirЋe being in the frame of mind that she was in, could break apart and tell everything. Everything, including the business about Mark's association with Buchanan and their involvement in politics.
"Listen to me, DesirЋe," she started to say, then sipped the wine as she thought carefully of her next words. "I'll be frank, for I'm sure that's what you want me to be. Why you came to me."
"Yes, yes, that's right, Helen."
"First of all, you were forced into what you did. You had no other choice. You were lured into it and forced, and no matter what you may think of what you did, you had no other way out. You did the right thing."
"But my…"
Helen held up her hand. "Your feelings, right? What's really bothering you is that you became excited, right?"
DesirЋe again nodded, mute, and twisted the little napkin in her lap.
"Well, pardon me for saying so, but I don't think any woman could have avoided becoming excited. Any full, loving, responsive woman, that is. Now neither one of us is frigid, DesirЋe; both of us make love to our husbands with every cell in our body, and we like to. That's the key to understanding what happened to you, DesirЋe – the fact that we naturally, physically like sex. How could you help not to get hot when their hands were caressing you, their… penises were hard inside you? Hell, I couldn't have, I know that."
"Really?"
"What it boils down to is this: you're a woman first, biologically. Half your body, and mine, is tied in with sex and procreation. Our feelings, emotions, and physiology are regulated by its rhythmic chemistry, and no matter how you try to, you can't deny that fact. You're a wife second, which is an artificial social discipline which is learned, not instinctive. You did what was natural, what your body was intended to do – and while most of our country would not approve nor condone it, you must chalk it up to an unpleasant happening. A mistake, at the most, but never as a sick, warped evil thing."
"But what am I going to do?" wailed DesirЋe.
"Do? Why, you're going to do nothing, DesirЋe. Nothing at all, though I think Sid should know about it so he can make sure there are no political repercussions. You know what I mean."
"Mark…"
"Mark shouldn't be told. Men don't understand about such things, DesirЋe, and might do something rash." She shook her head. "No, best to let things lie as they are. You still love your husband, I'm sure, and while it's been a mental shock, it hasn't hurt you physically. You can respond to your husband and his love just as well as before, and of course, that's what counts in situations such as these."
"You… you really think so?"
"Trust me, DesirЋe," Helen said. She went on for a little while longer, soothingly and with confidence, instilling some reassurance back in the shattered wife, pouring a little more wine, and finally getting DesirЋe to have a sandwich. By ten, DesirЋe Denning was perked up as much as possible. The heavy weight of her sin was like lead between her shoulders, but at least she was able to carry the load now, and not collapse as she was in danger of doing before.
Yes, DesirЋe thought as she moved around the big rooms among the guests, yes, I was right in coming to see Helen. She certainly was a great help, being forthright and blunt, and at the same time showing me that she really was concerned. She was correct in what she had to say, and I will follow her advice.
She was wearing her new summer dress and the guests, those that knew her and those that didn't, were drawn to her lovely appearance as she wandered through the house, looking for Mark. Where was he? It was a pretty dress, a frilly pale-blue sheath with no sleeves or belt, but a matching jacket for evening wear – which she now had on. The hemline was daringly high for her, just below the current "mini" style, allowing her to show off her slim, wonderfully toned legs. At first she had been uncomfortable in the dress, for she didn't have a slip she could wear with it and her only underclothing was her bra and panties, but when she saw herself in the mirror at the clothing store, saw how childlike and innocent it made her look, she couldn't resist it.
Helen Buchanan had been right, DesirЋe once more reminded herself. Telling the older woman her problem had helped. It certainly had. But, she still had terrible upheavals of conscience. Then the comforting words of Helen Buchanan would replay in her mind. You were forced… you did the right thing… no woman could have avoided becoming excited… do nothing… do nothing… they will never come back.
"I love you Mark!" she said to herself as she looked around the huge mansion for him.
The party had been planned on the flight from New York, after the meeting with the cadre of Arabs who were supporting Buchanan on this big deal. They were going halves, and the stakes were enormous. But so were the rewards. Sid had paid bribes to many, many inside men and he had things lined up in volatility and derivative trading. Over a billion dollars controlled by the investment chief for the Palestinian Liberation Organization Khalid al-Mazkum, were to go into this move to corner markets and manipulate the stock exchange in America, to tip the hand of the huge country against Israel and in favor of the PLO. With a death lock on so much American wealth and influence, the forces behind the Arab terrorist organization could change the face of American politics. It was a tremendous coup, and Mark Denning would go into the US Senate at the next election as their man in place. al-Mazkum had been in an expansive mood.
All the organization men hoping to land a piece of the action, Sid Buchanan knew, and their assorted wives and girl friends were at the party now, and it was a swinging affair. Good ol' Khalid, the head man over the PLO banking organization, tossed liquor down his throat and laughter resounded in abundant profusion, belying his plump, round-shouldered brooding appearance. Sid was pleased to be allied with the money and power that Khalid controlled.
Khalid liked Sid's house, which was a replica of a southern plantation home, complete with widow's walk and white pillars along the broad, wide front. It looked like a set out of a grand, cinematic epic, right down to the outbuilding and the horse stables. The garden, about the size of a football field, was more modern: swimming pool and cabana, two tennis courts, and a pond and stream where Sid raised his prize race horses.
Not tonight, though. Tonight DesirЋe was going to stay until the Buchanans put her and Mark to bed. Until the last dog is hung, until the last drink was…
"Marhaba!" came a booming voice, and DesirЋe nearly jumped a foot in the air. "Ahlan wa Sahlan!" Gruff hands went around her waist and a wine-heavy breath seared her neck as al-Mazkum kissed her. "Haw! Haw! I finally meet Denning's beautiful diva wife!" he guffawed, his laugh reminding DesirЋe of a bowling ball bouncing down a flight of stairs. She tried to smile and act as though his kiss had been fun… but it hadn't been. His rubbery lips, his sudden grasp had been too vivid a simile to the Arab's unfamiliar touch.
DesirЋe waited impatiently, for she wanted some sangria; wanted a lot of it, in fact, to dull the building pressure in her head. This party was going to be terrible until she could find Mark, that she could see – but not as terrible as the silent nightmare that had thrown a shadow over her happiness.
Mrs. Stone – "Just call me Vickie" – delivered two brimming tumblers of the ruby liquid and DesirЋe drank deeply. The sangria was pleasant tasting, very refreshing, with a combination sweet-tart taste hard to identify. A fruit punch? No… the fruit taste was in the background, DesirЋe thought as she ran her tongue around her lips. A wine base, plus… what? She finished her glass in three more swallows, excused herself to find Mark – where was he!? – and the Stones who were both listening intently, and walked over to the large cut-crystal punch bowl.
Samira al-Mazkum was behind the sangria bowl, busy looking pretty and exotic in her gold and silk Arabian finery. She was an impressive woman, statuesque, with a large figure gained from many years fine food and idleness in a villa in a country where Filipinos and Pakistanis were imported to do all the labor the rich Arabs would not stoop to. Her breasts were well buttressed in a corset, standing out like the Continental Shelf, and her whole bearing was one of imperious condescension as she looked over their tops. She was, however, a pleasant and friendly woman, and unlike most of the other females, knew something of the world. DesirЋe's husband had once said of her: "She must have been one lovely little virgin one day long ago."
She was most pleased to see the ravishing young wife of Buchanan's candidate-designate for the State Senate; her own husband being quite aware of Mark's prospects and coming ability and having mentioned the young man to her. DesirЋe felt warmly toward the woman, and after getting a refill of sangria, they started chatting amiably. Samira al-Mazkum was discussing with DesirЋe the recipe for sangria. DesirЋe had thought that Arabs did not drink, but she supposed everyone had their own mode of living.
"It's a red wine base, a good and hearty wine like Burgundy. Seven parts of it to two parts brandy and one part Cointreau, add a little Vodka if you want – I did – then a bottle of some carbonated lemon drink, slices of orange and lemon and some cherries, stir like hell and serve. Voila!" The older woman chuckled and winked, though never losing her decorum. "Be careful with it. It's very potent!"
DesirЋe let some more of the fine punch swirl around her taste-buds.
She nodded. "It's delicious Samira. Did you make it?"
"Well, I thought it might be fun to have something different than the usual bourbon and scotch and gin. My recipe, the servants' labor. So now they know how to do it."
"Hello, DesirЋe," came a familiar, mellow voice, and the young girl turned, startled slightly. Sid Buchanan stood, smiling at the two women, though his attention was mainly focused on DesirЋe. "A very pretty dress you're wearing tonight."
DesirЋe was flattered that her husband's boss noticed her enough to pick out a new dress – most men wouldn't have bothered. "Why, thank you, Sid. Yes, I bought it on the way tonight. Sort of a pick-me-up."
"After you've been married as long as I have," Samira al-Mazkum interjected wryly, "you'll be buying the pick-me-ups when your husband's home, not away."
The three of them laughed at that. Samira was quite devoted to her husband, and everybody knew that. They talked a little more, and then Sid said to DesirЋe: "My wife is dancing with Higgins. How about you and me taking a little whirl around the floor?"
"Well… I… I don't know." DesirЋe looked around for her Mark. Where was he?
She saw him in an animated conversation with another distinguished-looking man over in one corner, oblivious to everything else. Then she saw Sid's raven-haired wife Helen in the arms of one of the men she had met at the last get-together. He was not much of a dancer. The music being played by the excellent 12-piece band was a fast tango, something DesirЋe was very good at, but she was not in the mood for such a beat.
"No, I think not, Sid. It's a little fast for me."
Just as she spoke, the number ended, and was followed almost immediately by Jackie Gleason's arrangement of "Moonglow".
"This better, eh?" Sid asked. Not waiting for an answer, he took the glass from DesirЋe's hand and placed it on the table and swept her in his arms. "But…" DesirЋe protested weakly.
"Go ahead," urged Samira al-Mazkum. "Sid is such a good dancer."
"Relax and enjoy the party…" Her last words were drowned out as DesirЋe found herself whisked to the middle of the wide polished wood floor. She gave him one more moment of unreasoned resistance, and then she let the strong muscular arms of her husband's mentor lead her briskly to the beat of the music. The muted horns and gentle percussion soothed her tormented soul slightly.
The three glasses of sangria, taken as they had been on an empty stomach – for DesirЋe had lost her appetite that evening – began to slowly seep through her blood. She began to smile and, as suggested by Mrs. al-Mazkum, relax and enjoy herself. The sharp edge of panic melted and she found herself humming, her eyes half closed, as the music soothed her. She dropped her head and pressed against Sid Buchanan's rising chest.
Hot damn, the scheming man thought, trying to control his trembling passions, things are better than I thought. After Helen told him about how DesirЋe had responded today with three men on a date rape, he had been tingling to get into her pants again. Last time, he had taken advantage of her in bed with her drugged husband lying next to them on the king-size bed, and he wondered that she seemed to have forgotten the whole incident, not knowing that hypnotic induction had wiped the unpleasant memory from her mind.
He held the tipsy young wife tighter, his total willpower being taxed to stop his penis from becoming hard and pressing against her undulating belly. The thin and revealing dress she had on certainly didn't help his control any. When she had walked in without her husband, Sid had almost ejaculated in his pants on the spot, ogling the tight buttocks and ripe, jutting breasts, and smooth expanse of thigh and leg… never had so little covered so little. It made him quiver with the desire to really possess this proud little beauty again, and again, to bore his cock deep in her vagina as he had done last time she had come to this house.
Sid Buchanan had immediately set to work trying to find a way of getting his desires answered that night, to seduce the wife of his star political protegee. His prick and testicles ached with a burning fire for the beautiful little twenty-year-old wife, goading his mind to come up with some plan of attack.
And he had. He waited until she had consumed enough of the sangria to become slightly wobbly, and then he started to work on her. First this dance… then a short break for another glass of that wine punch. Sid chuckled secretly to himself. Sangria didn't taste strong, it went down like soda-pop, and women who would normally never indulge heavily soon found themselves drunk out of their minds. Sangria was sneaky, just like him.
The music stopped, and Sid led the pretty wife back to the punch bowl. She drank thirstily, finishing another glass, and Helen filled it again. They talked, the three of them, of general items: the local gossip, opinions on the fools in Washington, D.C., the Middle East and the problems in Israel. Sid sat out two more numbers and then, when another slow dance was played, he took DesirЋe in his arms again and away they went. Then there was more sangria…
After the third dance, DesirЋe was beginning to stumble a bit, and her tongue was getting tied around words of more than one syllable. It was, Buchanan thought, about time to drop the bombshell. The band was playing "Laura" and as he again danced with her, he leaned down and whispered in her shell-like ear: "DesirЋe, Helen told me about what happened today."
The reaction of the little housewife was sudden and cataclysmic. She stopped dead in her tracks, a quivering, shaking statue of agony, her mouth open and her eyes wide as saucers. "No!" she feebly choked. "No, she couldn't have!"
The sangria dulled the worst of the terrible pain that coursed through her brain. She had already realized that she had had too much to drink, but as happens when such a point is reached, she really didn't care. At this moment, she was desperately glad, for the dual shock of hearing that Helen had prematurely divulged her confidential confession to her husband, not even waiting until the party ended, and of being reminded of those raping men and Clete's blackmail, would have been too much for her tortured mind to absorb sober.
"H-Helen… shouldn't have!" she moaned, shuddering.
"Now take it easy, DesirЋe," Sid soothed, wrapping his arms around her. "Listen to me. Helen was very concerned about you, and naturally she turned to her husband for advice. We, you and I, both have an interest in Mark's political career, don't we?"
Obstinately, the pretty young bride fought back her tears and said bitterly: "She warned me against telling Mark!"
"Well, of course she did, DesirЋe. He would be the wronged husband, wouldn't he? I mean, it isn't as though I was hurt by your indiscretions. But Mark could very well become belligerent, seeing as it's his pretty young wife who was in bed with other men and…"
"Stop it! Stop it!" wailed DesirЋe, putting her hands over her ears. "I can't stand it any longer!"
Sid looked around, feared that her sudden outburst might have attracted attention. No, the others were well involved in themselves and laughing and shouting louder than her cry had been. Her husband, Mark, was nowhere in sight now.
"DesirЋe!" he hissed. "Get hold of yourself! You have to face the situation, no matter how unpleasant. Don't you understand? Do you have any idea what would happen to Mark's career if all this got out?"
"No… no…" the now hysterical young wife pleaded.
"He'd be totally unelectable, the cuckold husband of a loose and wild woman. I'm your friend, DesirЋe. Believe me, Helen did the right thing telling me. I can help you."
"Help me?" DesirЋe looked up suddenly. How can he help? she thought irrationally.
"If Mark should find out somehow. Or if that local sheriff makes good his threat and exposes the whole thing. Or if those men do something with the video tape, what then?"
"I… I don't know," she shuddered, the possibilities too horrible to contemplate. "I don't know what I'd do."
"Well, we have to talk these things out, DesirЋe." He looked around again. "We can't talk here, though. Too many people. Tell you what. Let's go somewhere and discuss this. All right?"
"Wh-where?"
"In my study. It'll be nice and private and quiet in there, and nobody will disturb us."
"But… but what about Mark?"
"He's fine. He's having a ball here somewhere. Hasn't found you yet, has he?"
Sid saw the shake of her head, indicating the negative answer, and he pressed on. "We have to stick together, us Buchanans and Dennings. Now you go on into the study. I'll join you in a little while."
"Sid…" she started to say, but DesirЋe knew that she was going to the study. She had to, for as Sid Buchanan had said, she was in no position to deal with the consequences if they occurred. Her own father was powerful in his way, but he must never, ever know about her sordid lapses into adulterous lust. She would have never dared to go to Buchanan, never would have even considered going to another male, friend or no. But now that Helen had done so – strictly with good intentions, of which DesirЋe was now assured – and the rich and powerful man had evinced such strong personal interest in her plight, she was going to have to lay bare the sordid details again and see what Sid Buchanan could do to solve her immense problem.
"Now, go on," Sid prompted. "That's it. I'll be there in a minute. Soon as I talk to Khalid."
Nodding numbly, DesirЋe Denning, a whirlpool of swirling emotions and agonies, was escorted to the study by a servant. Samira al-Mazkum, coming out of the bathroom, paused and asked her if anything was the matter. DesirЋe shook her head, saying that no, she just needed a little rest and quiet for a short time.
The moment that the beautiful young wife of his star political protegee was out of sight, Sid Buchanan began the second part of his plan. He hurried over to his most important new associate, Khalid al-Mazkum, who was listening with a bored expression to a story about a nude mermaid, a New York executive on a deep-sea fishing trip, and a bag full of lead weights.
"Khalid," he said, sidling up to his new partner. "Khalid, come over here for a minute, will you?" He indicated a quiet corner with a tilt of his head.
al-Mazkum nodded, wondering why Buchanan was so excited all of a sudden.
"Thank Allah you came along when you did. That's one of the oldest dirty jokes I know, and if Matthews doesn't learn any new ones soon, I'll boycott the next party he's at."
"Khalid, listen," Buchanan cut in. "You said you wanted to get your prick into Denning's wife. I think you've got a chance."
"Samira's sangria gotten to you?"
Buchanan grinned, his grin a fiendish look of devilment. "No, but it's gotten to her. The sangria is great, Khalid. No, this is to help us cement our little deal."
Khalid al-Mazkum had arrived from his offices in Dubai the day after Mark and DesirЋe had left after the last party. Buchanan remembered well the festivities that DesirЋe seemed to have forgotten, for he had drugged Mark with a powerful Mickey Finn and had treated the girl to a liberal dose of an expensive aphrodisiac, helping himself to her hot, young pussy as she lay masturbating in bed next to her comatose husband. She had been duly shocked at finding him on top of her, and he had never expected to see her again quite so soon without her bringing with her a serious attitude problem, but he was not one to analyze women and their moods and motives too deeply.
Khalid had money to invest for the terrorist gang he worked for, the Palestinian Liberation Organization. Buchanan was much too astute to believe their false respectability, and much too unscrupulous and practical to care whence the money came. He wanted 1.2 billion dollars to match his investments in some insider trading deals he had developed over the last three years through what he called his jackals. The data had been constantly in development, and when the time was right, the capital had to be there, instantly, to take advantage. A number of positions had to be established at once, the result being that he could obtain control of a number of big, pro-Israel corporations with much influence in Washington and in the markets of the world.
He had succeeded in interesting Khalid al-Mazkum in his machinations for two reasons: the PLO, a venal and greedy organization underneath it all, could treble its money on the one hand, and on the other neutralize the anti-PLO influence of the Jewish-run companies and turn their influence in the opposition direction. Sid Buchanan's razor-sharp mind had conceived and put the plan into execution. It was complicated and involved an unscrupulous organizer in each of the stock exchanges in New York, San Francisco, Tokyo, Singapore, Hong Kong, and London. Inside information, and the systematic placement of dozens of his jackals, his information gatherers, his jackals, bribe-givers, spies, informers, and computer hackers. They were now getting ready to make their move precisely tomorrow, and it would have to be done quickly and all at once before it was discovered what they were doing and market forces adversely changed the prices or someone moved to block them.
Buchanan had rounded up a colossal 1.1 billion dollars of his own, had further funds from a consortium of close associates of 1.9 billion, and a further 1.2 billion available through Khalid al-Mazkum, the investment manager for the PLO, an enormous 4.2 billion dollars for his use, which he conservatively estimated would triple their value within a month, dwarfing most of the world's banks and giving them more power than could be imagined.
Even now, the email had arrived from his central investment compiler, the organizer, working on all the gathered information. It was sitting now on his desktop computer in the study, right there on the screen for Khalid to see. The Arab's wire transfer would give him disposal of the funds within two hours, and he would transfer the information to his broker via email in the morning. The transactions would be completed just prior to the stock exchanges' closing on tomorrow, Friday, leaving a whole weekend before anyone could take steps to neutralize the massive transfer of corporate power to Buchanan's consortium, whose members, including the PLO, could remain mainly anonymous several weeks before the damage was assessed. By then, Sid and the PLO would have control of no fewer than twenty-three multinational corporations dealing in defense, microchips, and finance.
However, Khalid had taken a lot of convincing to risk his organization's money on such a venture, and the blitzkrieg nature of the move made it nearly impossible to do any long-term planning. al-Mazkum's total trust and optimism had to be cultivated, and Sid had been a trifle premature is promising the Arab a chance to have sex with DesirЋe Denning, after bragging about how he had done it before. Khalid had seen her picture and had instant palpitations, not alleviated by the knowledge that she was still shy of her twenty-first birthday nor by Sid's detailed descriptions of her physical charms and musical abilities.
Now it appeared that, with the help of the sangria, if he was terribly clever, Sid could deliver on his promise to the Arab and vent his own burning lust that had been crackling inside him since he had last seen her. He had devised this pretext to have Mark here and had been disappointed that his little bride had not accompanied him, had even curried favor by prematurely advancing a half million dollars for the young politician's campaign fund.
"Yes, our deal."
al-Mazkum was still smiling as Buchanan led him to a small room adjoining his study, where the young woman was now waiting for his consoling attention. Sid pointed at the door.
"In there, on the computer, is a list of our targets, ready for emailing to my buyer in the morning." Sid smiled broadly, and repeated, "In there, on my computer, the business that will make us richer than the Sultan of Brunei, and…"
"And?"
"DesirЋe," Buchanan said quietly, feeling a bit unhappy at having to share the blonde angel with this Arab, whom he liked very little in spite of everything they were planning together.
"Tell me more," al-Mazkum said, suddenly very interested. He was almost as much of a swinger as Buchanan was, going after women whenever he could get a chance of avoiding his steely-eyed wife. Christ, just the idea of nailing the tender little pussy of straight-laced Mark Denning's wife made his cock tingle with lewd preparations. "What are you going to do, feed her Spanish fly?"
Buchanan shook his head and lifted the bourbon bottle. "Not this time. Just this… and the old Sid Buchanan touch, heh, heh. Now listen, Khalid. I'm going in there to talk to her, see. She's already there, waiting for me."
"Ya Allah, I'd have never believed it," al-Mazkum said in new-found awe of his partner. "Waiting for you, no less."
"Right, and I can't keep her waiting for long, heh, heh. In about fifteen minutes, you sneak in very quietly. I think you might get a little view well worth your trouble, heh, heh."
"Yeah, but what about my…"
"Your turn? Have to play that by ear." Buchanan turned to enter the book-lined, walnut paneled room. "Keep the light out in here until I've got her where you want her…"
"Sid…" al-Mazkum was licking his thick lips, a gleam in his eyes.
Buchanan was by the door. "Yes?"
"You set it up so that I can fuck that DesirЋe Denning, and I'll send you three beautiful whores from my friend's harem." That young beauty with all her wide-eyed aura of virginity had been on his mind a long time. And now… if Buchanan could, well by God, no price was too high. "Hear me? I'll raise it, Sid."
Buchanan chuckled obscenely. "Worry about raising that cock of yours, then. DesirЋe Denning is going to get screwed like she's never been screwed before!"
He walked quietly to the door, eagerness already swelling his testicles, bloating them with the sperm he was going to pour into that tight, hardly touched cunt of Mark Denning's young wife. This was going to be great, he gloated to himself, a piece of the finest tail in the state, and would make Khalid al-Mazkum dump a fortune into his investment company.
Now all he had to do was to play his cards right…