Anne Taylor gave the Arab hotel boy a few coins in his bronze-colored hand, which was held out to her expectantly. She noticed how he hurriedly let his eyes wander over her body. It was as if he wanted to memorize as many details as possible about the anatomy of this strange, western woman in the few precious moments until the door to the room closed. I’ll probably play a starring role in his dreams tonight, Anne thought, and a mocking smile played around the corners of her mouth. She looked at him, direct and challenging, resolutely closing the door and turning the key.

She was in Marrakech. Tired from the long flight. Cramped from sitting for hours in the fully booked wide-bodied tourist jet. Completely sweaty and hadn’t had a bath for hours. Everything was sticking to her. Her dark blonde hair had long since lost its loose fullness and hung stringy over her cheeks.

There was a large mirror on one wall of the rather sparsely furnished hotel room. It showed an attractive woman in her mid-twenties. Natural-colored cotton pants made of light material, cut wide and comfortable in line with the trend. An airy jacket with the name of a famous designer on it. A simple white blouse underneath. An American from Chicago, New York, San Francisco or Dallas. A yuppie, as we know her from the trendy monthly magazines. Independent. Experienced. Self-confident. Successful in her professional life. Probably single with her own apartment and changing boyfriends. And now on a dream trip to fabled Arabia.

That’s right! She thought as she looked at herself. Everything was true, except for the vacation trip. Because she certainly hadn’t come to Morocco as a tourist. But to work.

She opened the door to the adjoining room, which turned out to be the bathroom as expected, registered the porcelain washbasin, toilet and the long-awaited shower, checked whether water was actually coming out of the shower hose, was pleased to see that there was even warm water and proceeded to peel off her sweat-soaked clothes. It felt good to feel the light evening breeze on her bare skin and she wondered what the hotel boy would give to see her like this. After searching for a while, she finally found the small plastic bottle of deodorizing shower gel in the larger of her two suitcases and disappeared behind the blue plastic curtain of the shower. As she enjoyed her shower, she thought about what she had planned for the next few days. The moderately strong jet of water, which fluctuated moodily between lukewarm and hot, poured relentlessly over her head and ran down her body before finally disappearing down the drain, enriched with sweat and road dust that had been loosened from her skin. She was here to work. The airfare and the hotel bill included in the tourist package had been paid for by the publisher. In four weeks at the latest she would be expected back in New York and with her a story worthy of being read by millions of sensation-hungry magazine buyers. The life of a journalist was one of constant pressure to succeed. She had known it from the beginning and perhaps that was exactly what had always attracted her to the profession. That and her constant restlessness, her desire to always be at the center of events, to poke her nose into things that didn’t really concern her, to investigate backgrounds, to find surprising things. This journey into the completely foreign and, for a woman, probably not entirely harmless world of the Arabs was the preliminary highlight of her career and at the same time the decisive conclusion of a story that she had been researching for over a year.

Dripping wet as she was, she left the shower and lay down on the already slightly groaning French bed that dominated the small room, stretching her legs and arms relaxed. The silly giggles of a couple of young girls drifted in to her from outside. They were probably the same ones who had come with her on the plane and who were now starting to make the most of their precious, counted-out vacation days right from the start. Anne had to think about her story. She thought of the topic that had been on her mind for months, of the many unanswered questions and of her daring, almost life-threatening project that had just begun with her arrival at the hotel. Thousands of disorganized thoughts were buzzing around in her head. Information. Thoughts. Conjectures. Conclusions. Theories. She had read a huge number of books about the Near East. History books. Travelogues. Books about the difficult to understand political situation in this region. And, above all, everything she could find about the culture and way of life of the Arabs. She was particularly interested in the rather strange relationship between the Arabs and their veiled women. After all, her magazine was read by 43.6 percent women. And they were certainly very interested in finally finding out what really went on in the private lives of the rumored and downright immorally rich sheikhs. And the remaining 57.6 percent of men among the readers would certainly appreciate a voyeuristic look behind, and above all under, the veils of the Orient. Anne Taylor intended to give everyone what they would read with enthusiasm. To give women their dreams of wealth, luxury and oriental sensuality. The men their fantasies of belly-dancing beauties and key-jangling harem guards. And to their publisher, a story that would not only boost the magazine’s circulation, but also their own income.

She rolled around and reached for her flight case. The somewhat masculine-looking brown leather bag with its countless zippers, flaps, side compartments and cleverly concealed inside pockets was stuffed with everything she would need for her upcoming work. She removed the letter-sized Tandy 100, a battery-powered computer with a typewriter keyboard, built-in liquid crystal display for eight lines of text and built-in memory for up to sixteen pages, from the heavy piece of luggage. She plugged the charger for the batteries into the only socket in the room after searching for the right plug adapter. She switched on the computer, selected the ADRESS.DO program and typed in „MARRAKECH“. After a brief flicker, she had the telephone number of her contact in Morocco, who must live somewhere in this chaotic city and who had offered to help her with her research.

She picked up the receiver of the old telephone, waited for the receptionist to answer, which took almost a minute, and asked the childish-sounding female telephone voice:

„Would you please connect me to 92312345856?“

„What was the number?“

She repeated, read the number from the computer display again, very slowly, so that the girl could write it down and added, slightly irritated:

„Please hurry, mademoiselle. It is urgent.“

„At once, madame.“

Anne doubted whether the little girl down there really knew what the English word ‚immediately‘ meant. She prepared herself to wait an eternity for the desired connection and decided to use the time to squeeze the contents of her suitcases into the far too small closet of the second-class hotel room and think through her next steps. She only had four weeks in this hotel. By then she had to be finished with the desired story about the loves and lives of the Arabs in order to be able to return to New York. Or she had to have such a sensational story in her pocket that the publisher’s approval was no longer important.

The large floor-to-ceiling mirror no longer reflected the typical tourist from before, but a beautiful young woman in carefree nudity. Anne paused from time to time in front of the glass, which was already dull in places, and looked at herself with self-satisfaction. Her skin hadn’t really seen the sun for a long time and her complexion was correspondingly light. Perhaps exactly what a tanned son of the desert has in mind in a dream, she thought to herself, caressing her full breasts with their pink centers, from which two firm little towers immediately rose when she touched them. I wonder if the girls and women here wore a brassiere underneath their loose-fitting coverings. Were the Arabs as fixated on big tits as the Americans? Anne was sure she would soon find out more. She turned sideways to the mirror, stretched her arms upwards and folded them behind her neck. She looked contentedly at her profile, provocatively stuck out her bottom, gyrated it like she had seen in belly dancing, turned on her own axis, glanced over her shoulder to get a good look at herself from behind and finally began to adopt a series of obscene poses that would have found satisfied viewers in any men’s magazine. Finally, she stood with her legs apart and bent over so that she could see between her legs and take in the full view of the provocatively curled rose between her light blonde hair. Then she turned away with her self-confidence boosted.

She had everything the men were after. And this time she would use it to the full to achieve her goal.

She tapped a few command keys on the typing computer. The UPI report that had started the whole thing several months ago appeared. Eighteen lines of text that she would turn into a thrilling story about love, passion, kidnapping and murder. She read the text, probably for the hundredth time.

AMERICAN TOURIST IN ARAB HAREM. SUSAN SHERWOOD, AN 18-YEAR-OLD AMERICAN WOMAN, WAS FOUND NEAR MARRAKECH, MOROCCO. SHE WAS IN A COMPLETELY NEGLECTED CONDITION AND HAD OBVIOUSLY BEEN ABUSED. SHE LATER TOLD THE AMERICAN AMBASSADOR THAT SHE HAD BEEN ABDUCTED AND TAKEN TO AN UNKNOWN LOCATION IN THE DESERT. SHE REPORTED THAT SHE WAS COERCED INTO SEXUAL ACTS THERE AND

The phone rang. Anne picked up the phone, dropped into the battered armchair and picked up. First the childish girl from reception answered and then the voice she had been expecting.

His friends called him Hassim. He was Moroccan. Muslim. But when he thought about it, he was actually more at home in the United States than here in his homeland. Even though he now lived near Marrakech. Hassim had studied and lived for many years with the Christians on the other side of the great sea, who were unbelievers in the eyes of all Muslims. He had become a valued expert in the field of telecommunications and satellite communications. He thought like an American, he dressed like an American and, as long as he stayed on his sprawling property a few miles outside the city, he lived like an American. Hassim was the key contact here for a number of US companies when it came to persuading the Moroccan government to buy sophisticated intelligence equipment. He was also the only competent man in this field and therefore a welcome and irreplaceable advisor in the government palace. His delicate connections between politics and business meant that his house occasionally became a refuge for influential foreigners who wanted to escape the omnipresent austere way of life in this country from time to time. But they also made it a place of dreams come true for numerous local politicians and dignitaries, who were always open to a little Muslim sin in return for their concessions in certain economic decisions.

Hassim had adopted the pragmatic, cool American way of thinking without losing his Arab shrewdness and cunning. He knew that this country was a huge future market for electronic media of all kinds. The Arabs loved to sit for hours in front of the television to watch their horse races. But the broadcasting network was pitifully thin. Everyone who was anyone in this country had a telephone in their house. But the service was sluggish and unreliable and was still the same as it was fifty years ago. Those who could afford it drove their wives around in a gleaming chrome Cadillac. But good roads were the exception rather than the rule. Hassim saw it as his goal in life to bring the achievements of the new, modern world to venerable, old Arabia. And he knew that this was only possible if you cultivated the right contacts and adhered to the right rules of conduct. That was what made him so valuable to the Americans and so irreplaceable to his government. For although the Arabs always attached the greatest importance to their Muslim traditions, somewhere deep inside they knew very well that they were actually still living in the Middle Ages, while the rest of the world around them was determining the future. And so a man whom they could accept as a Muslim and who at the same time had a foot in the Western world was exactly what they needed. Hassim was able to bridge the two worlds brilliantly, without creating unnecessary complications between the Koran and the Bible, between deep-rooted faith and convinced atheism.

„Anne Taylor from New York. I’m pleased to hear your voice. Did you have a pleasant journey? Are you staying comfortably? How are you, my dear?“ Hassim leaned back in his massive leather armchair and tried to imagine this journalist with whom he had had a long and interesting conversation in San Francisco last summer. And who had also helped him to many a pleasant night of love.

„I feel excellent, Hassim. At least now that I’ve washed off the unbearable heat and dust. It’s a terribly dusty country here.“

„Yes, yes, my dear. Morocco is just where the famous, great lady Sahara begins. But I can promise you that you will get to know many more beautiful aspects of this country. Provided you allow me to show them to you.“ Now he could remember her clearly. She had beautiful breasts. Not the puffy kind that Americans love, but big enough for his taste and, above all, nice and firm and prominent. Anne Taylor had sat in front of him in a bikini. Back then, by the swimming pool at the Ramada Inn in San Francisco. Yes, and when he stood up he had noticed that she had exactly the kind of shape in the back that would get a flabby man on his feet. He remembered her bikini bottoms as beautifully round and crisply filled. Unfortunately, she had always insisted on turning out the light on their later nights of love-making and so he had never really been able to see what she looked like completely naked, without the last bit of bikini fabric.

„Speaking of showing. Have you been able to do anything for me yet, Hassim. You know I asked you…“

These Americans are all the same, he thought to himself, they always think about business straight away. He hurried to interject before she said something inappropriate on the phone. „But dear Anne, don’t be so impetuous. Don’t be afraid. Everything has already been prepared for you. But let’s not discuss it on the phone. How about coming to see me first thing tomorrow. I’ll have a car sent for you and we can discuss what’s new in peace and quiet. Allow me to take care of you while you’re here in Morocco.“

„That would make me very happy, Hassim. But I have to see the American ambassador first. He’s expecting me at nine o’clock. Perhaps you could have him pick me up there.“

„It will be a pleasure to welcome you to my home, Anne.“ And not just welcome, I promise you, you workaholic beast. When you leave here, you’ll know more about the Arabs than you’ll ever want to. Hassim grinned with satisfaction and it occurred to him that he had better send her a warning.

„Oh yes, Anne, there’s something else.“

„Yes, Hassim?“

„It’s better if you don’t tell this ambassador that you have contact with me. Politics and business require a lot of tact in this part of the world. I want to avoid anyone drawing the wrong conclusions. So perhaps it would be better if I had you picked up at the hotel rather than at the ambassador’s.“

He could just hear Anne’s agreement when the line started to crackle again and the conversation broke down completely shortly afterwards.

Medieval technology, he cursed and hung up the phone. It was nothing unusual in this country for conversations to be interrupted. In fact, sometimes it felt more like something out of the ordinary, if they happened at all. Hassim felt confirmed once again that this country desperately needed better communication technology.

He strolled out of the room and entered the elaborately landscaped garden, which was the main attraction of his residence. His gaze swept over the crenellated wall and far into the rugged rock formations of the high Atlas Mountains. The air still radiated the dry heat of the day that was characteristic of this region. But in less than an hour it would be pitch dark, and with the night would come the cold, an unpleasant cold that a foreigner could hardly imagine in a country like North Africa.

Hassim’s residence was an old fort that had been built centuries ago on the flat top of a rocky mountain cone. Once built by the Spanish, later destroyed in the Spanish-Moroccan war and never rebuilt, he had found it an ideal place from which to conduct his business without attracting too much attention. He had had the massive, meter-thick walls carefully renovated, a modern and comfortably furnished residential complex had been built inside according to his plans and a sophisticated irrigation system had even made it possible to grow a lush abundance of tropical plants. From a distance, there was nothing to suggest that people were living in this seemingly dilapidated ruin again. Uninvited onlookers were therefore rarely to be feared and when they were, a small but highly armed and highly trained security force ensured that privacy was maintained. And that was absolutely necessary, because it would be extremely embarrassing for many a visitor to the fort if the faith-stricken public found out what the guests of a certain Hassim were doing to pass the time.

Hassim called one of his confidants to him, instructed him to pick up Miss Taylor on time tomorrow and gave him precise instructions on how to proceed.

„Have the bellboy give you the keys, go upstairs and pack her bags. Make sure that nothing is left behind in the room when you leave the hotel. On my instructions, she has not been entered in the registration list. This means that no one can prove that she has ever stayed at the Marrakech Paradiso. Everything has already been arranged, you will be able to do your work unhindered. But take special care that she doesn’t suspect a thing. Remember, everything must look as if she’s only going away for a few days to visit a good friend.“

„You can rely on me.“

„You have all my trust. But…“ he lowered his voice and continued in a confidentially hushed tone, „…remember. She is a guest of our house and enjoys all the privileges of a guest. At least for the time being.“

The man, a young Arab with a tanned, muscular body, moved away and a little later a Toyota Landcruiser could be heard struggling down the steep, unpaved road into the plain at walking pace and after a while disappeared into the horizon, trailing a huge cloud of dust behind it.

Although the fort was located far away from the major traffic routes in the no-man’s land of the Moroccan stone desert, it was still only five hours from Marrakech and therefore five hours from the nearest international airport. It was also possible to land directly inside the thick walls in a small helicopter. An opportunity that many personalities from the worlds of business, religion and politics gratefully took advantage of, as such people rarely have much time, but always have the opportunity to squeeze in a night of purely personal pleasure between two important appointments.

Hassim’s residential complex consisted of a large number of cleverly interlocking small houses in Moorish architectural style with connecting round arches and glistening white plastered outer walls, which nestled against the mighty outer wall made of solid natural stone and offered an unobstructed view of the beautiful park, which bloomed profusely in every season. The whole thing rested on a massive stone vault, which was still part of the original fortifications and consisted of numerous rooms of different sizes connected by winding corridors. Down there, immense stocks of food were stored, which kept their freshness for a long time in the cool climate. The necessary weapons and equipment were stored there. The entire technical equipment and energy supply for the fort was located there. And down there was also a series of firmly bolted dungeons with massive iron bars in front of them. Part of the fortifications had windows to the outside. This part housed all the operating personnel, who were under strict orders to behave as if they were not actually present. The majority of the staff consisted of very young girls, whom the connoisseur of Arabia would immediately classify as the Bedouin daughters of the country. They were all exquisitely pretty and were under the strict supervision of some older Arab women. In addition, there were a few young buds from sub-Saharan Africa with pointed, hard breasts and protruding buttocks, several almond-eyed Orientals of petite stature and, of course, a constant selection of slender and invariably blonde European women. Omnipresent male guards made sure that everything was done to keep the master of the house happy and his constantly changing guests comfortable.

Hassim’s private chambers were organically embedded in the entire residential complex, but could only be reached via a special entrance and were directly adjacent to the only larger building, which formed the social hub of the entire complex and essentially consisted of a large pillared hall that could accommodate up to one hundred guests. This was where people came together to chat among men. There were dance performances here. This is where people met for lavish feasts. Many an important decision for the country was made here, or at least prepared in the interests of Hassim and his friends and business partners.

„Miss Taylor, you have the wrong idea about this country.“ The ambassador sat behind his impressive mahogany desk and tried to make the journalist feel that she was just an annoying, stupid girl asking simple-minded questions. „You can’t just go to the police here and press charges. No policeman would get his hands dirty here for a foreigner, an unbeliever. And…“ he finished the sentence with an ironic smile, looking her challengingly in the eye, „…certainly not for a woman.“

„But these are American citizens. And there is obviously organized crime behind it if fourteen people disappear in one year alone in an unexplained manner. As a representative of the United States, don’t you have the task and duty to protest vigorously against these events?“

„I have, Miss Taylor. And I can assure you that the American Embassy is doing its best to resolve the matter but…“

„Why hasn’t there been a single official protest note to the government?“ Anne Taylor was back in her element. She could throw her interlocutor off balance, disrupt his well-considered formulations and thus provoke ill-considered statements. She had mastered her craft and was determined to get more out of this complacent ambassador of her country. At least more than he had already said in the official press releases.

„The United States has no interest in jeopardizing the reasonably good relationship with this Arab country.“

„Not because of a few tourists, you mean.“

„I think that there are higher, more important economic and political interests. And as long as the problem does not take on larger dimensions…“

„You mean as long as the matter can be played down as regrettable individual cases…“

„…until then, we will endeavor to appeal to the relevant political authorities in our host country, but we do not yet see any justification for making a highly official matter of it.“

„Have you at least taken any security precautions to prevent such ominous abductions in the future?“

„We have also done what is possible here. We have asked the tour operators to point out to their customers that there are certain things that you simply have to avoid as a woman in an Arab country. But of course we can’t put a CIA man behind every American tourist to ensure her safety.“ The ambassador’s voice now sounded unmistakably irritated and Anne knew that she had soon managed to win the conversation for herself. The massive man leaned back in his moss-green leather chair in search of psychological support and lit a cigar. As the first thick clouds of smoke spread their aromatic scent around the room, he pressed the button on the intercom in front of him and ordered a couple of soft drinks in the outer office. Then he slowly got up, went to a locked steel cabinet, searched laboriously in his pockets for the key, opened the security lock and took out a thick blue plastic folder.

„Please, Miss Taylor,“ he pointed to a spacious leather seating area, „let’s take a seat here. I’ll show you something.“

An embassy employee brought a selection of exotic fruit juice drinks.

„As you can see, we also adhere to the Islamic custom of not drinking alcohol here. At least officially. Please help yourself.“ He tried to adopt a friendly, almost familiar tone and opened the folder, which was labeled „For Internal Use Only“.

„In here are the names of no less than one hundred and twenty-three American or European girls who have come to Morocco over the past four years for a few days‘ vacation and have never been seen since. All young and exceptionally pretty and a striking number of them blonde.“

He slowly turned page after page and Anne saw passport photos of invariably beautiful girls, protocols, letters from worried relatives, requests from lawyers and here and there some documents in Arabic.

„Here, Pratricia Harris, twenty-three years old, single, American. Or here, Petra Strasser, nineteen years old, single, German. Or here, Angelique Bertrand, twenty-two-year-old student from Lyon. As you can see, the problem is not just an American problem. Girls and young women disappear regularly, almost every week, from the tourist hotels and vacation bungalows on the Atlantic coast. American, German, English, French, Italian, Swedish. They have always traveled without male company and in most cases they have embarked on an adventure with locals.“

The ambassador leaned back weightily and visibly enjoyed the concerned look on his visitor’s face.

„Some of them are probably living in mute desperation with some wealthy Moroccan today. As an exotic second, third or fourth wife. Maybe one or two have even become happy. But most of them are probably working in some posh brothel, hoping that one day a European will come and free them from their situation.“

„So it’s about organized human trafficking. About slavery in the twentieth century.“

„That’s the only correct term.“

„But what are the local authorities doing about it?“

„Nothing.“

„Just nothing?“

„Miss Taylor, you have to look at it this way. Morocco is a modern and civilized country where there are only devout Muslims. And in a civilized, devout country, there is no crime and therefore no human trafficking. No government official would tell you otherwise. And you don’t have to fight a problem that doesn’t officially exist.“

„Wouldn’t it be good if the world public found out about these events? It should be possible to make contact with one of the many girls. We should be able to get at least one of them out of the country, as proof that nobody can refute.“ Anne’s reporter’s instinct was awakened. She already saw herself as the great journalist who had uncovered one of the last scandals of our time. She felt that she was very close to her subject. She could smell the scent and was determined to pick it up.

„There’s another side to this.“ The ambassador looked at his interlocutor thoughtfully for a long time, searching for the right wording. She was pretty. She was even blonde, something that is considered a very special treat by the Arabs. And she obviously had no inhibitions about putting herself in danger. He was not allowed to do anything that could backfire on him. The most he could do was put her on the right track and keep an eye on her. So that she wouldn’t get lost under some veil.

„Politics and business require a lot of tact in this country. And as I mentioned at the beginning, America’s economic interests are a touch more important than the personal fate of a few careless tourists.“

„I’ve heard that before, but I wasn’t particularly convinced.“

Anne sensed the ambassador’s questioning look, but didn’t say another word. She sensed that he had something to tell her.

„Our secret service has not been idle. The only problem is that our work has led us to realize that the masterminds and perhaps also the beneficiaries in this business, which we normally call kidnapping, are in the highest government circles. And that our own countrymen don’t have entirely clean fingers either.“

„You mean Americans have their hands…“

„…I don’t mean anything. I only know that you can only do business with the Arabs if you diligently distribute baksheesh through all levels. And above a certain hierarchy, money alone is no longer a sufficient incentive. Other incentives have to be offered.“

„I understand.“ Anne sensed that the ambassador wanted to send her a message, but couldn’t be too clear about it. She decided to analyze his words more closely later.

„Haven’t you already made contact with a certain Hassim?“

Anne looked up in surprise. „How did you know I was with…?“

„Let’s not talk about where and how. I just want to warn you, Miss Anne Taylor. This Hassim is not without danger. He is an influential man here. I hope your research doesn’t turn out any differently than you imagined. Because once you are in the lion’s den, no one will be able to help you.“ The ambassador stood up and put the file folder back in its place in the steel cabinet. On the way there, he added casually:

„But you’re right. Hassim is not uninteresting for your story. And if you want to get ahead in your cause, you’ll inevitably have to take a certain risk.“

The rest of the conversation was rather inconsequential and so Anne Taylor was already back at the hotel as planned when the telephone rang and the childish voice from reception announced that a young gentleman had come to collect the American lady.

Anne quickly packed the essentials into the smaller of her two suitcases, hung the heavy bag with her technical equipment around her neck and went downstairs.

She met the young Arab in the hotel bar. He was dressed in modern Western clothes, greeted her in a friendly manner and obligingly took her luggage, telling the boy to stow it in the Land Cruiser waiting outside. He then exchanged a few words in Arabic with the girl at reception, who then handed him something with a bored expression.

„Please excuse me for a very brief moment, Miss Taylor. I’ll be right back at your disposal. We can leave in a few minutes.“

His look was friendly and confidence-inspiring. His body made a muscular, strong male impression. Anne followed him with her gaze until he had disappeared through the front door and got into the off-road vehicle outside. She felt a certain sympathy for the young man. But he was an Arab and somewhere, deep inside her, a silent warning was ticking. She thought of the contact address and telephone number the ambassador had given her. „If you get into real trouble,“ he had said.

It took about twenty minutes for the young Arab to reappear.

The journey had been really exhausting. It had taken almost the entire rest of the day and Anne thought she could feel every bone in her body. The dust seemed to be in every pore of her skin. Her head was pounding from the endless banging in the uncomfortable vehicle. And she was longing for a bath.

But at first it took her breath away. The miserable roads. The cone-shaped mountain. The seemingly dilapidated castle. And now this.

When the heavy iron grille had lifted and the off-road vehicle had driven through the archway of the large gate with a roaring diesel rattle, it had seemed to her as if she had suddenly been transported to a completely different world. Before her eyes was a lush, blooming garden with a multitude of tropical plants, most of which were unknown to her. There was even a fountain in the middle. All of this was framed by picturesque Moorish architecture, glistening reddish white in the setting sun, and the mighty natural stone wall, over which the view stretched far into the high Atlas Mountains. Anne Taylor was fascinated. She had the feeling that she had been transported to a paradise. She stood there for a long time and gazed at the surprising scenery.

„Welcome, my dear.“ Hassim approached her with a broad smile. „Welcome to my paradise in the desert. Your journey was arduous, but you will see that it was worth it.“

He led Anne along a long colonnade and showed her to the residence where she was to spend the next few days. Her luggage was already inside. The bag with her equipment. The small aluminum suitcase. And, to her astonishment, the large Samsonite that she had actually left behind at the hotel.

„You’ll be able to work on your story much more undisturbed out here than in the hotel. That’s why I’ve taken the liberty of having all your luggage brought here with you. I’m sure you won’t mind.“

Anne felt the quiet warning ticking somewhere deep inside her again. She didn’t like the idea of this Hassim patronizing her so easily. But she was far too tired now to go into it. And she actually felt very comfortable here.

„Is this the famous Arab hospitality, Hassim?“

„Other countries, other customs, Anne. Don’t think about it. Just make yourself comfortable here. Everything is at your disposal. The bedroom is next door, the bathroom is back there and if you have a request, just pick up the phone.“ He looked at her for a long time, finally nodded in agreement and added with a smile:

„You look just as beautiful as you did last year. Yes, here in my house it seems as if you’ve become even more beautiful.“

She returned his deep, unfathomably Arabian gaze with a mischievous smile and said:

„Don’t be so impetuous, my friend. Remember, I’m here purely out of professional interest.“ Anne knew it didn’t sound very convincing.

Hassim turned away without responding to her words, but turned back at the door and said, looking at her khaki cotton pants with their countless practical pockets, which were now in a rather crumpled state:

„There’s one more thing you should know, my friend. It is not customary here for women to wear men’s clothing. So please be so kind as to wear something nice. I’ll be expecting you for dinner in an hour. In the meantime, freshen up, take a bath and get some rest.“

She wanted to say something cheeky, but he had already disappeared and she was alone in the cave-like apartment with its roughly plastered walls, which exuded a pleasant coolness. The large, unglazed opening offered her a wonderful view of the fabulously beautiful garden. She had barely opened her two suitcases to start unpacking when there was a cautious knock on the door and two young Arab girls came in.

The two of them might not have been sixteen years old yet, although it was easy to misjudge the age of women in this country. They both wore the same flowing, light and almost transparent cloak that only concealed their young bodies at first glance, but on closer inspection revealed small, bouncing breasts and fully developed female contours. Underneath, they were dressed in the usual airy, wide bloomers.

They were two rather small girls with voluptuously shaped bodies and the characteristic dirty brown skin tone of the Arabs. They didn’t necessarily fit the Western ideal, but they were flawlessly beautiful in their own typical way.

The two smiled innocently and sheepishly and immediately set about carrying out the tasks obviously assigned to them by their landlord. While one disappeared into the bathroom and took care of preparing Anne’s bath, the other helped the guest of the house undress. A short time later, the young journalist found herself in a large, oval and richly ornamented bathtub with pleasantly warm and fragrant water. She enjoyed the welcome services of skillful hands. She was cleaned from head to toe from the dust of the uncomfortable journey, with meticulous attention paid to the intimate and less honorable parts of her body. She was rubbed with fragrant essences. She was carefully dried and finally, with all the refinements of oriental art, made into a beautiful, desirable young woman in a way she would never have been able to achieve herself. All this was done without a word being exchanged, and an hour after her arrival in the bewildering and intoxicating dream world of the castle, Anne Taylor was ready to join the master of the house for a meal.

„It’s not really customary here for the men to dine with the women.“ Hassim smiled again in that inscrutable way that only Arabs can smile. „But in the case of my friend Anne Taylor, I think you can make a permissible exception. After all, you are here for purely professional reasons and therefore, according to our understanding, to a certain extent on a par with a man.“

Anne returned her host’s smile and ignored the ironic-sounding innuendo. She played it cool. She also paid no attention to his unabashedly appraising stare, his eyes lingering particularly conspicuously on the point where the flowing soft material of her elegant evening gown parted to allow a generous glimpse of the base of her full breasts. She knew the dress was cut very daringly. And she had chosen it deliberately for her first evening with Hassim. In a way, it was a promise. A sign that she was prepared to reward him if he helped her with her work. For Anne was not only a journalist with heart and soul. She was also a woman who was acutely aware of the effect she had on men and who had no objection to using her body as a tool if she felt it would help her climb one rung further up the ladder of success.

„Are you under no compulsion, Hassim? I’m used to men looking at me like that.“

It was a flight forward. Provocative. Coldly calculated. And spoken with the self-confident tone that probably only an emancipated woman of the West is capable of towards a man.

The serving of the food prevented an immediate reply. But Anne’s reporter-fueled attention had not failed to notice how Hassim’s facial features had hardened slightly at her remark and his lips had become a little narrower.

The two young girls who were busy serving the sumptuous meal did so with careful movements and submissively lowered eyes. They seemed to be aware only of their master’s presence and served the strange white woman with unmistakable indifference. Anne sensed a certain indefinable tension between the man leaning back and waiting and his eager servants. Her senses perceived the harsh breath of power and the helpless emptiness of dependence that this moment expressed. She instinctively sensed that there was more going on in this house than the lavish lifestyle of a rich Arab would suggest.

„If you were an Arab woman, I would have had you flogged for that outfit.“

Anne’s unease increased abruptly. She felt an alarming ticking in her stomach. She had challenged her counterpart. But instead of being embarrassed, as she was used to from every other man, this Arab was completely in control of the situation. He continued to look at her in a friendly manner. But it was clear to Anne that these words were not meant ironically, humorously or mockingly. The look on his face said unmistakably that he meant what he had said and the first signs of fear spread through the young journalist. Fear fueled by the realization that out here in the rocky wilderness she was completely at the mercy of this man and his obviously far-reaching power. She sensed that she had miscalculated him and decided to be on her guard from now on.

The meal, which was no doubt an overwhelming experience for the undemanding palate of an American woman, proceeded in polite friendliness with trivial topics of conversation, which only after a long time gradually led back to the reason that had actually brought Anne Taylor to Morocco.

„What do you know about the disappearance of American and European female tourists?“

„My dear friend. You are still quite young and inexperienced in many things in life. You have not yet realized that in other countries there are other ideas of right and wrong, other concepts of morality and immorality, other laws and other punishments. They completely lack the knowledge of what distinguishes the people here in the High Atlas from those in the Appalachians or the Rockies, what makes the real difference between a Bedouin and an American cowboy. They simply come here with their Western notions of equality between all people, of equality between men and women, and think they can judge us Arabs by that.“

„But aren’t there fundamental standards that…“

„Let me tell you something, my dear.“ Hassim impatiently interrupted the journalist, who began an eager interview, and gave her a disdainful look. „I didn’t offer you my help and hospitality to have pointless discussions with you. I didn’t invite you to my private property because I wanted to help an American reporter get the story of her life. I did all this quite simply…“. He stopped abruptly, stood up, grabbed Anne Taylor, who was concentrating intently on his words, pulled the completely surprised young woman up to him before she was able to react at all, and tore her precious evening dress in two with a powerful jerk, so that she stood there with her breasts exposed and a piece of cloth hanging unsteadily from her, looking at him with eyes widened in horror. Then he pushed her away from him with a fire-breathing look and continued with a clearly raised voice:

„I only went along with the journalistic behavior of a bitchy American like you for one reason. Namely, because I liked your ass and your tits and because I had the idea to teach you a lesson you won’t forget for the rest of your life.“

He shouted something in Arabic in a shrill voice, whereupon two burly guards immediately rushed in and grabbed the hitherto polite guest roughly by the arms. Before they led the young woman out, Hassim said in a completely calm and confident tone:

„I could actually have you flogged now. But I have better things to do with you.“

Anne Taylor was struggling far too much with her shock and paralyzing fear to react in any intelligent way.

When she woke up, the next morning as she assumed, she had once again been transported to another world in a very short space of time.

The room she was now in was much more spartanly furnished than her home from the day before. In fact, it consisted of nothing more than a creaky bed, a small table with a simple stool in front of it and bare, whitewashed walls. On the table was her bag with the Tandy 100, the mini cassette recorder that she always carried with her and which also served as her computer data storage device, as well as a supply of cassette tapes and batteries. Her other luggage was nowhere to be seen.

Anne noticed that she had been undressed and was lying completely naked on the uncomfortable bed. She also noticed that the room had a massive door, which you could see at first glance that it was firmly locked from the outside. And that the only window was barred with massive iron bars.

From outside, the first rays of the bright desert sun found their way into the still pleasantly cool interior of the room. Anne felt a slight light-headedness, which immediately led to dizziness when she sat up. This Arab must have put something in her food to put her to sleep. That was probably why she hadn’t been able to fight back when he had been rough with her.

She felt the need to urinate and found a dented metal bucket that seemed to have its usual place under the bed and whose smell indicated that it was there for this purpose.

Unidentifiable noises and human voices could be heard from outside. Anne went curiously to the tiny window to see where she was and what was going on around her.

She looked into a round courtyard paved with rough stones, surrounded on all sides by a whitewashed wall interrupted at regular intervals by small barred windows. Apparently, behind each of these windows was an uncomfortable cell like this one, the journalist concluded, memorizing further details of her surroundings. The wall was only one storey high. Numerous bushes and shrubs could be seen above it. In between, the facades of individual buildings could be made out. The steady splashing of a fountain could also be heard, from which Anne concluded that this circular courtyard was, as it were, embedded in the lush green landscape of the garden she had seen yesterday and could easily be seen from above, i.e. from the numerous interlocking bungalows that lined the park.

Only now did she realize that the babble of voices from the numerous small windows was coming towards her and that they seemed to be exclusively bright, female voices. She also saw now that in the middle of the courtyard there was a row of massive wooden posts set into the ground, each with a small step in front of it.

A creaking noise at the door made her jump. But she could only see the narrow slit through which two unfamiliar eyes had looked at her for a moment close again. She felt uneasy at the thought that she was locked in here completely naked and could be stared at from outside at any time. For the first time she realized what position she was actually in and the first signs of panic spread through her.

She ran the three steps to the door, drumming wildly against it and shouting in an over-excited voice for Hassim, for the police, for the ambassador, for someone who could get her out of here. But nothing moved. Instead, something seemed to be going on outside in the courtyard.

Anne stepped to the window again and froze. What she saw made her blood run cold.

Two Arab guards dragged a wildly thrashing and panicked young woman into the middle of the courtyard. The woman was blonde, a young thing with shoulder-length hair and very fair skin. American, Anne realized, and instinctively reached for her recorder to record what was happening. She could make out bits of words in the language she was familiar with.

„Camel driver … let me … you damn bastards don’t, I don’t want to, I don’t want to be on here … no, nooooo …“

No one paid any attention to her indignant shouting. On the contrary, she seemed to put the two guards in the right mood, for the two primitive fellows with their sun-tanned skin laughed with amusement as they went about their obviously familiar business of tying the unruly young woman’s hands together with a thick rope. They did this in such a way that her arms wrapped around one of the poles standing in the middle of the courtyard.

„No, please don’t … please, let me go … don’t you hear me, you should let me go … no, I don’t want to … please, please …“

The initial imprecations had turned into pitiful pleading when the unfortunate girl fully realized what was to happen to her. The men now hooked the coarse rope into a rope that had been let into the post above the girl’s head and fixed her to the wood with her arms stretched far upwards. Then they took her wildly flailing legs, wrapped them around the pole and tied them together so that the only reaction she had left was a non-stop lip service to obedience and submission and a desperate rearing up of her torso.

In the meantime, a few people had emerged from the bungalows some distance away who seemed to be visibly interested in what was happening. Anne made out several Arabs among them, but also two European or American-looking men. They clapped their hands enthusiastically as the two guards proceeded to tear the simple linen cloak from the young American woman’s body, brutally exposing her delicate white body to all eyes.

Anne Taylor instinctively held her breath. She knew what was about to happen. Everyone here knew it. The young American knew it too. Anne had repeatedly read in her research that public corporal punishment was still practiced in Arab countries today and that in private life it was considered commonplace to chastise disobedient women. But what was happening right before her eyes paralyzed all her senses. And it reminded her unpleasantly of the fact that she herself was standing here without a rag on her body.

The young American woman had snuggled up close to the massive wooden pole in anticipation of the inevitable. Her whole body formed an intimate embrace with the rough material. The soft curve of her breasts stood out on either side of the thick round wood. Her legs clasped it like a lover. Except that her firm thighs did not open themselves willingly to love, but merely offered their thickly mossy secret to the lustful gaze of those to whom her young body was now defencelessly exposed. Her large round bottom, on which the outline of recently worn bikini bottoms was still clearly visible, now dominated the field of vision in full display. Her head was adorned with luxuriantly flowing blonde hair and anyone could also see light-colored fluff between her legs. Her waist had been slimmed down to the narrowest part of her body, probably through months of iron eating discipline, which only accentuated the bulge and size of her buttocks. She was a rather small girl, but she was well-proportioned and, most importantly in the eyes of the Arabs, she was blonde. Like all blonde girls, she had sensitive, markedly fair skin that was still youthfully wrinkle-free. Anne estimated her to be eighteen, twenty at the most, and she remembered that the Arabs only considered very young women to be really interesting. She had read several times in her research that they considered a well-developed twelve-year-old to be a special treat and that this was also the age at which young girls were considered marriageable.

The time had come. The two guards had left with broad grins on their faces. Instead, a weighty-looking man entered the courtyard. In his hand he held an imposing leather whip, consisting of a single, wide strap with an elaborately braided pommel. Anne knew that it could cover a body with lurid welts in minutes and had a hellish effect, but at the same time it was known for never seriously damaging the skin.

Absolute silence returned. All that could be heard was the gentle whistling of the wind, which caught in the countless nooks and crannies of the mountain fort and brought in hot, dry desert air.

A corpulent body made a half turn. A thick arm swung wide. A wide leather strap swished through the air. And a helpless girl let out a shrill scream while white-skinned thighs tugged at her bonds and her whole body rebelled in vain.

The procedure was repeated. The hiss of the leather. Its slapping on naked girl’s skin. The scream. Brightly flashing, wide welts. Again and again and again. Until the entire lower half of the young body, especially the thighs and buttocks, was a single red and swollen area that stood out grotesquely against the pale color of the rest of the skin. Until the individual screams had merged into a single howl and whimper. And until the initial violent rebellion had given way to a hopelessly resigned acceptance. Anne Taylor thought she could almost feel for herself what an unimaginable sea of pain the young American woman must have sunk into. She stared spellbound and bewildered at the maltreated bundle of humanity that now hung lifelessly from its torture stake.

The two guards reappeared, released the American from her restraints and lowered her to the ground, where she curled up in pain and howled heartbreakingly.

„Don’t worry, she’ll survive.“

Anne was startled and looked into Hassim’s eyes. She had been so captivated by what had just happened that she hadn’t even noticed how her host had entered the cell.

„I see you’re already in the middle of your work.“ He took the mini recorder from her hand, switched it off and threw it on the bed.

His grin was lewd and mean.

„This was just an insignificant episode in your report. You will have the opportunity to experience more. Much more and far more impressive than this. Because…“ he stepped very close to her so that she could feel his breath as he continued „…you will not only write what you have seen with your own eyes. But you will be able to write down your own personal experiences. I’ll see to that, you stuck-up American bitch.“

Hassim gave her a rough slap and left the room without another word.

It was about a week after Anne Taylor’s arrival at the fort. A khaki-colored military truck rumbled through the heavy, wrought-iron gate and set off on the bumpy ride down the narrow switchbacks of the mountain into the wide valley. The rough wooden benches on the bed of the ancient Mercedes truck offered hardly any comfort worth mentioning for the small group of young women and girls, who sat crammed between numerous packages and gazed blankly at the rocky landscape as far as they could see through the raised tarpaulin. They had been dressed in camouflage-colored military clothing to avoid arousing the curiosity of the nomads roaming the area. The heat was unbearable and even the breeze brought no significant relief. The women’s clothes were already soaked with sweat by the time they set off on their journey and were sticking to their bodies. A circumstance that only pleased the four guards, who sat in every corner of the hold and feasted their eyes on almost a dozen firm young breasts whose contours were more than clearly visible under wet men’s shirts. Their constant grins made it clear that they were extremely comfortable in their own skin.

Anne Tailor was the only white woman among the female passengers. She was also wearing uncomfortable military boots, pants that were far too wide and had countless pockets, and a coarsely woven cotton shirt that now clung to her body like a second skin. Her strikingly blond hair had been pinned up and hidden in a beret, her white skin covered with some disgusting smelling grease so that she was not recognizable as white, at least at first glance.

She had the distinct feeling that she was facing the same destiny as the other young women on board. A feeling that again triggered that strange fluttering in her stomach and brought her a completely new experience of what she was only now coming to know as the experience of naked fear. She had often found herself in dangerous situations in her intensive journalistic career. But never before had she been so completely helpless at the mercy of strangers as she was now. Because here, in this overwhelming expanse of naked, sunburnt land, there was no law that could offer her any protection. There was no telephone to call the police for help. Instead, she had to reckon with a fanatical religiosity that dominated almost all people’s actions and in which there was little room for a woman’s rights. And she gradually had to get used to a thought that was extremely repugnant to her, but which now seemed to be part of the unalterable reality of her situation. Namely, the realization that she was no longer the successful, unattached, emancipated journalist she had stepped off the plane in Marrakech a few days ago. Instead, she was now nothing more than an ordinary woman. One of the countless insignificant beings who seemed to exist in this country solely to satisfy the needs of the all-dominant men. It seemed like a dream to her, but she knew all too well that it was the bitter reality. She, Anne Tailor, was the helpless captive of an influential Arab. She was little more than the other young women on the truck. Just ordinary human merchandise on the way to market. She tried to calm her emotions and took refuge in her previous self, the self of the journalist who used every situation in her life to do her job. She began to study her involuntary traveling companions.

The majority of them were obviously of Arab origin. They had the ash-brown color that you only find in this part of the world and the impassive, empty expression on their faces that is typical of people who have no expectations of their lives and have long since given up all hope. Without exception, they were beautiful women with even facial features and long, black hair that normally reached well past their shoulders, but was now tied up at the back and disappeared into their loose men’s shirts. Anne clearly identified two of the girls as African. They were clearly slimmer and taller than the others, had a deep brown, almost black skin color and wore the proud look that only African women had and that never seemed to disappear completely, even in humiliating situations like this human transport here. Anne thought to herself that the rich American plantation owners at the time of slavery must have seen this expression of dignity and pride as a very special challenge. It was certainly this innate pride that had earned many an unfortunate Negress a cruel beating or, if the occasion arose, a few extra lashes.

The loudly roaring truck lurched through the rocky valleys, finally reached the scorching, dry heat of the desert and then lurched for hours over an undulating, never-ending sandy track. The monotony of the seemingly endless journey was only interrupted every few hours by a short stop to change drivers and top up with diesel oil from one of the many canisters they carried. The women took advantage of these welcome opportunities to disappear behind the next dune and relieve themselves. They were each accompanied by two guards who positioned themselves on the crest of the dune and watched them urinate openly while they commented on the process in Arabic and accompanied it with raucous laughter. Only when Anne felt the need to disappear behind the dune did the laughter stop. Instead, the two wild-looking fellows became visibly nervous and energetically grabbed the long-tailed leather whip attached to her caftan while they watched with suspicious yet greedy gazes as she began the degrading procedure of peeling the shapeless soldier’s trousers from her body and squatting without any privacy to piss in the sand like a stray bitch.

It was a great injustice of nature, Anne Taylor philosophized to herself at that moment, a blatant inequality that a man only had to open his pants and pull out his cock to pee, but a woman had to bare herself almost completely every time for this everyday, banal process and still had trouble not to wet herself.

Despite her efforts to keep track of the journey and to memorize every change of direction and landscape, Anne Taylor eventually lost all sense of time and space and only knew that she was somewhere in the vast, endless Sahara. In the end, when the exhausting journey was finally over and the transport reached an oasis that had suddenly appeared on the horizon and, to the relief of the unwilling passengers, had not turned out to be a mirage, Anne Taylor was far too tired to pursue any analytical thoughts. Her body had become completely numb from the long shaking. Her throat was dry and burning like hell. And her sensitive skin, unaccustomed to such exertion, was already so chafed from the rough men’s clothing that she could hardly walk properly when she was finally allowed out of the truck.

The oasis turned out to be a dirty nest inhabited by a bunch of equally dirty characters. Anne Taylor immediately realized that it must be some kind of army base, because there were jeeps, trucks and other military equipment everywhere. She also quickly noticed some features that she tried to memorize, hoping to use them later for her story, which was still vivid in her mind. For example, there were only a few men to be seen in the whole area, but instead crowds of young girls running around chattering and giggling everywhere and casting furtive, curious glances at the truck with new arrivals. In addition to the young girls, there were also a few older women. They kept to themselves, however, and Anne had the impression that the young girls kept as far away from them as possible.