The Ambassador’s daughter, Alex Wintour, endures her first interrogation by Omar, the attractive young terrorist educated in the US. He’s fluent in English, with an understanding of American culture and politics.
I glared back at her, speaking in slow, measured tones: “you’re a prisoner of war, a casualty brought on by your government and their campaign against Allah and the tenets of the Holy Koran. You have no rights here, no diplomatic standing you are legal tender to be used in trade for Muslim leaders being held against their will in western prisons. You will be treated better than our captives are treated by Americans at Guantanamo, you will not be tortured or sexually humiliated as they are but we will not tolerate insolence. Your safe return to the US Embassy depends entirely on your father, his willingness to negotiate your release will determine your fate”.
Why was she not backing down, I sensed strength not known to Muslim women. I saw this in the co-eds at Kansas State, wanton insolence, drinking alcohol and smoking in public. It shocked me then but here, under these impossible circumstances, this girl was challenging me, did she not know I could have her flogged or worse.
“You underestimate my Father; he is resolute with significant resources at his disposal, you and your thugs will live to regret capturing me.”
She stared at me, her blue/green eyes had darkened, her tone was guttural almost feral as she rebuked me. The next slap was harder, she almost fell off the chair, her fair skin exploded in crimson, and the swelling was simultaneous, the glare deepened, the slap strengthened her resolve.
“So this is what you and your thugs mean by not being tortured or humiliated, how dare you. I’m the daughter of the United States Ambassador to the Republic of Pakistan; my Father is an American diplomat with credentials accepted by your President and Prime Minister. You will live to regret this Omar or whatever your name is, punishing me will make it go worse for you when I and the American aid worker, Max Stein, are rescued, and we will be rescued, you can be sure of it.”
“Perhaps my young friend, perhaps but the question for you to ponder is whether you’ll be rescued alive—or dead.”
Why am I feeling this way, the girl means nothing to me, she’s the daughter of Satan, a woman sent to tempt me not help me? That last slap did not bring her to submission like Muslim women are taught, it made her defiant and angry. Allah help me why am I aroused, not enraged, the ache in my groin was disturbing, suggesting alternative motives, motives forbidden to me.
She wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth against her sleeve, bent her head down and spit out the red saliva; she glared at me and uttered the words with defiance; “fuck you, asshole”.