Submitting to the Enemy: In the Prince's Harem ( by Fannie Tucker Page A

he obviously didn't approve.
    To feed his voracious libido, Nazari kept an extensive harem in his Saudi palace , and most of the girls in his stable were Americans - Nazari's way of literally "fucking the USA."  The highly selective screening process ensured that only the most beautiful, most sophisticated, and most willing girls were considered.  Of those, only a handful would be whisked off the continent on his personal jet.  In Saudi Arabia, they would be paid exorbitant sums of money to be at the Prince's beck and call, indulging his every sexual whim until were sent back to America with big checks, hollow eyes, and dark bruises on their once-perfect buttocks.
    I was here for my audition.
    I nodded my thanks to the doorman, then headed for the elevator.  He didn't need to tell me which floor.  The Prince's staff had mailed a keycard along with specific instructions, which I now followed to the letter: Arrive by 7PM.  Speak to no one.  Take the elevator to the top floor, then do as you're told.
    As the elevator carried me upward, I wished again that there had been some other way.  Three other female agents had volunteered for this assignment, but only I had been chosen for an audition.  It wasn't an assignment I relished.  The former harem girls we'd interviewed had told frightening stories of Prince Nazari's twisted sexual cravings; none had thought their experience worth the six-figure paychecks.
    I considered stopping the elevator and stepping out at the next floor, but the ghosts of my old squadron floated through my memory.  I had been their Army Intelligence liaison until the Mountain Wolf's ambush had wiped them out, and I still felt responsible for my failure to warn them. 
    After my encounter with the Colombian drug kingpin, I had told myself I could leave those memories in the grave and focus on the living.  Focus on repairing my relationship with Cal Turner, and perhaps leave off this insane vendetta.  But my sense of duty, instilled in me by my Cuban mother and strengthened by the Army, gnawed at my conscience until I picked up the trail again.  I owed my friends justice, and that path led through Prince Nazari.
    So I held my ground and let the elevator carry me to the top floor.  The presence of Cal's strike team reassured me, ready to charge upstairs in seconds if I uttered the code word.  The diamond stud on my left earlobe contained a tiny microphone that could pick up a whisper half from across the room.
    The elevator doors slid open to reveal a small but luxurious foyer.  I stepped out onto thick carpet and stood straight and dignified.  From this moment on, my every movement and word would be recorded.
    I waited for several minutes, and my feet began to ache in my high heels.  Although I longed to shift my weight to get more comfortable, I kept my poise.  Prince Nazari's staff would need to see that I was cool and confident even under pressure.  While I waited, I admired the intricate scrollwork carved into the dark wood door.  Not all the girls who came to this penthouse stepped over that threshold.
    Finally, it swung open to reveal a tall, slim Saudi man with a neatly trimmed beard.  He wore an immaculately tailored suit in the Western style, but when he looked at me with hard eyes, I knew he saw me as chattel.  "Come," he said in heavily accented English.
    I bowed my head slightly and followed him into a palatial apartment with lofty ceilings.  Gold leaf and silk covered every surface, and crystal chandeliers sparkled.  The room's decorator had striven for opulence, but I thought it overdone.  Sometimes the greatest display of power is the most subtle.
    My host led me to a pair of stuffed leather couches and motioned toward one.  "Please, sit."
    I obeyed with a graceful smile, but said nothing.  Our intelligence indicated that Prince Nazari liked his women meek and pliant.
    The tall man looked down at me, his eyes full of something that wasn't quite avid enough to be