CHAPTER 1

 

Samantha blinked sweat out of her eyes as the sun blazed down on her. Ordinarily she would have wiped it away with a tissue, a hanky or even her hands. The other option would have been to move into the shade out of the sun; but alas, none of these options were open to her. Pain throbbed through her knees from kneeling on rough strips of bamboo: again she would have normally moved or stood up but again such an option was not there for her.

The brutish Korean guard smiled down at her from his seat in the shade, treating her to a display of his blackened teeth. On impulse she would have loved to leap at him, slap his ugly face and storm away but that again was an impossibility; the two other guards behind her saw to that. If she moved so much as a muscle in any direction she knew to her cost that they would spitefully lash her back or bottom with their thin bamboo canes, which hurt like hell.

Another in her wish list catalogue was that she could lower the two buckets of water she held with quivering muscles on outstretched hands, or consume some of their contents to ease her thirst, but whenever her aching arms lowered, the canes would again lash across her shining flesh. However, perhaps most of all she wished that they had allowed her to keep her clothes, that she wasn't stark naked and that the brutes surrounding her weren't eyeing her kneeling form with such sadism and evil lust. She shuddered in fear and dread, knowing that somehow she must try to endure this pain and humiliation and survive.

She knew, the way a girl does - but will never admit - that she was beautiful.

Admirers called her a vision in loveliness; they likened her to someone who had stepped from the pages of a magazine or a film. Yet this predicament she was currently in was all too real. Now cruel slitted eyes travelled slowly from the roots of her dark shoulder length hair over her delicious breasts and slim waist to the feminine swelling of her pert bottom. Shivering in her vulnerability, licking dry lips, she again blinked away the sweat stinging her bleak, staring eyes.

Although she was a secret agent and thus supposed to accept risks, it made the concept of being captured, of being utterly helpless in the hands of your captors, people who hated you, who cared nothing whether you lived or died, no easier to bear. It had happened to her once before, in the desert during a conflict with Arabs. It had been terrible and she had often woken up in a cold sweat during the two years that followed, thinking that she was again back in the hands of the Middle Eastern sadists. Normally she slept alone, only exceptionally sharing her bed. But if she wasn't alone she had often been thankful to feel the comforting arms of a special boyfriend around her, soothing her shaking body, stroking her back to sleep.

Now it had happened again and her companion in misfortune last time, an equally beautiful blonde, Rebecca was again sharing her torture this time. Avoiding another lash, careful to move only her eyes and not her head, she saw Rebecca kneeling similarly positioned just metres away. Anguish and strain were etched on her pretty, shining face, her lovely breasts heaving as she strove to hold up the heavy buckets. Although Rebecca was a few years older than her, the blonde's pretty face and figure equalled Samantha's. Her companion's eyes briefly met hers in mutual bleak shame, discomfort and helplessness.

Samantha gritted her teeth. There was nothing, absolutely nothing she could do to help either herself or Rebecca and that thought annoyed her, made her feel guilty. To take her mind off her present painful predicament, her mind roamed back over the last few days, wondering if she could have done anything differently.

 

CHAPTER 2

 

The e-mail message had been forwarded from half a dozen addressees to Samantha's desk in the ugly but functional MI6 building by the Thames. It had arrived on a day which for her was seemingly going to surpass those she had experienced in the last few weeks for its sheer boredom. There had been nothing for her to do besides mind-numbing paperwork, reading and writing reports and of course some mild flirting with the equally bored male operatives of MI6. That was no good for her a woman of action such as herself.

Her most recent two missions over the last 6 months or so, in the Balkans and then in China had been both successful and exciting. In the first, having discovered a traitor in the Balkans, he had walked into her trap and her only regret was that she had to kill him. Killing wasn't something she enjoyed; her humanity still prevailed. But where it was necessary and unavoidable she could accept it. Then, months later, on a subsequent mission in China, she had outwitted a loathsome Chinese spy, Chan. She had achieved this without even touching him, thank heavens, leaving him alive. Indeed the thought of touching Chan's fat slimy body would have been sufficient disincentive. She had simply come away with the information she had wanted, albeit after a few 'local difficulties.' Whatever, the outcome of both those missions had been a success and at the young age of 26 she had added to her growing MI6 CV of success. Even her capture in the desert a couple of years ago had given her credit; she had proved that she could stand up well under unspeakable torture. Thus, when she saw the message from her friend Rebecca, the person who had shared her desert torture, she sat straighter in her chair and peered intently at it.

Rebecca, it seemed, was temporarily stranded in Korea. Her friend undertook minor, low-key intelligence courier duties often in support of her husband, who was a businessman working undercover and part-time for the British secret service. He had moved on a week earlier to a conference in Japan whilst Rebecca had seemingly stayed on in the Korea for a few extra days with a Korean couple who were friends of hers. When an uprising had broken out in the area, near the North Korea border, all Western countries were trying to keep a lid on things. However, it appeared that most methods of travel were cut and Rebecca was stranded. Her guarded plea for assistance in getting out had been sent on from the Foreign Office to Samantha in view of her friendship with the woman.

Samantha's immediate line manager in the MOD suggested, when he forwarded the e-mail to her, that if she wanted to help, she adopt a low-key approach. No one knew where the uprising would lead and they didn't want to make matters worse but equally they knew it had the potential for embarrassment because Rebecca was staying near North Korea. 'It would make many people feel twitchy if anyone remotely connected with Western intelligence fell into Korean hands ...' he had commented when sending her the e-mails.

"Look, Sam, you don't have to go, you know," her boss, Colonel Mike Purge, had insisted after she had walked into his office with her customary feline grace. "I know that you know the woman but it's just a low key helping hand and there might be better things for you to do if things really kick off in Korea so ..."

"It's OK, Mike, I don't mind being a nursemaid for a few days. I know my way round. And I like Rebecca, she's my friend and helping her has got to be better than just shuffling papers for the moment. I ..."

"Enough, you've convinced me - sorted!" He interrupted her in his normal brisk way. "You can leave tonight on the 21.00 flight. As a precaution in case you were interested in going, I had my secretary make a booking for you at the Heathrow check-in desk. Your flight is to the nearest Korean city to the difficulty. Then we have some military helicopters nearby on, er, 'exercise. You can arrange something with them, I'm sure. I'll have a word with their Commanding Officer to look out for you and offer whatever assistance they can." He dismissed her.

 

***

 

How could Samantha have known that the uprising would have spread to several South Korean border towns by the time she had landed and that North Korean troops were also now sniffing around? The Western politicians, as always, were in the initial throes of what would be a week or so of utter paralysis. Samantha knew she had to act swiftly with the tools she had at hand; she and Rebecca could count on no help for some time.

She managed to contact Rebecca on the mobile contact number her friend had given in the e-mail, telling her to stay put in the house until she could cadge a lift with the army helicopter unit her boss had liased with. Despite her seductive looks, long dark hair and charm, it had taken a whole day to convince the unit's Colonel Steve Bullet of the British army reconnaissance unit to 'lend' her an army captain. She wanted to use David Barker, his helicopter and crew for a few hours. She had needed to assure him, through scouring local maps, that she had found a safe landing ground a mile or so from Rebecca's house.

Samantha had often worn army uniform in the course of her duties and she relished the feeling of security from the camouflage trousers and jacket, webbing helmet, body armour and weapons. Self-sufficient, it could carry the various tools of her trade, personal effects, food and water without bothering with the like of handbags. It almost made her feel invincible but she hastily checked that, knowing the incautious dangers of such feelings.

Feeling refreshed from a few hours' sleep, albeit initially groggy from the 3AM wake-up call, she had lifted off as a passenger in the Gazelle helicopter half an hour later, munching cereal bars for breakfast. Somehow she had found time to shower, don fresh underwear and apply a little make-up to ensure she kept the helicopter's commander, David Barker, sweet. However, the gunner sergeant she was seated next to and who helped her strap in and don the headphones was a strikingly pretty Indian girl, Rashmaris, on whom she guessed such flirtatious feminine embellishments were lost.

It was the usual noisy and uncomfortable ride, made worse by the dark countryside rushing by metres below the clattering blades but within another half an hour the captain had spotted the agreed landing site and she was un-strapping.

"We'll return here at 5.30AM exactly, before first light, don't be late or you're on your own, love." David stressed.

"I'd rather you call me 'Major'. That's my designated rank when working with the army, if you don't mind, Captain Barker?" she emphasised his lower rank. "I understand and just hope you will be on time. I can get out on foot," she extracted her satnav which was already indicating the way to the house where Rebecca was holed up, "but I'd prefer the ride, OK? I've got your mobile number and you've mine so we can touch base, right?"

"Yes, Major; it's 5.30 on the button then, right here." The captain's tone was now more deferential. She slid down onto the damp grass expertly, clutching her gun and tightening her rucksack containing Rebecca's uniform over her shoulder.

Samantha felt a pang of fear as the clattering beast with friendly faces looking down from its warm glowing windows lifted off to leave her alone in a dark field in 'enemy territory.' For a moment she was a frightened girl rather than a self assured secret agent. Then she conquered it, she had done this several times before. If she kept her head and met with no unexpected difficulties, she and Rebecca would have time for a good old chat whilst they waited for the Gazelle to return. She lay on the ground, finger curled around the trigger of her semi-automatic rifle, for a full minute unmoving in case anyone had heard and investigated her arrival. None came and she breathed again. A glance at her tiny satnav screen showed her the direction to Rebecca and she set off in a crouching run.

It was easy, so very easy; her plotted route led her across several more fields and a quiet deserted road until she was crossing a field bordering the garden of the house containing Rebecca. A quick call from her to Rebecca's mobile, the back door opened and barely twenty minutes after leaving the helicopter she and her friend were embracing warmly. The touch of her friend's supple body against hers sent a tiny shiver of excitement up her spine - a feeling that she angrily suppressed.