The Big Short

She was waiting for Adeel to say something. He didn't say a word. Instead, he just turned and sauntered off. He was standing next to the door of the upstairs disco when she bustled in. Their eyes met. Adeel gestured with his head toward the courtyard leading to the street, turned and walked away without looking.

He knew that his allure would cause her to follow. The villa was back from town in the Agios Lazaros district. Adeel and the taxi were waiting when Holly walked out of the courtyard. She slid fluidly into the cab, trailing an erotic cloud of expensive scent. They still had not uttered a word,

Holly looked inquiringly at him and Adeel immediately covered her lips with a steamy kiss. They both knew what she was there for. Holly moaned in surprise and opened her mouth reflexively. Her arms went around his neck and she began to kiss him ardently.

By the time the cab arrived at Adeel's villa they were making out like teenagers. And still, with the exception of moans, sighs and little cries of sensation, not a word had been said.

Adeel had planned this seduction to the second. The driver was paid and tipped in advance. So, there was no interruption. The two of them wrestled through the flagstone entrance, across the great-room with the stunning views of the Mediterranean and fell into the big bed.

Holly had so many unforgettable orgasms that she could barely remember her OWN name, let alone the name of the person next to her. She turned her head to look at him. The lush Mediterranean sunlight shone on her magnificent body. He was eying her hungrily. She said wonderingly, "Who ARE you?"

Besides "Fuck me!!" "Harder!!" and "Don't stop!!" those were the only words she had spoken to him since they had met. In fact, she didn't even know if he understood English.

He smiled gallantly, even his teeth were perfect. They gleamed brilliantly in his dusky face. He said in very slightly accented English, "Adeel Al-Asad at your service my beautiful maiden."

Of course, he was no more Adeel Al-Asad, than Holly was a maiden. He was Bobby Martinez from Cabrini-Green, on the near north side.

Bobby was a perfect illustration of the old Nietzsche principle about how things that don't kill you make you stronger. By the time he was nineteen he was running one of the toughest gangs in the entire project. His high IQ, good looks and charisma were assets. But his almost reptilian soul was the thing that made him dangerous.

Bobby Martinez was the complete sociopath. He had no problem inflicting pain on others since his lizard brain didn't recognize that anybody else existed. The creatures in Bobby's world were put there strictly to give him pleasure, and, Holly Pritman had done that. In fact, she was the wildest fuck he had ever encountered.

It was just a job - originally. But Bobby decided that he would get the most out of this bitch before he killed her. That had always been the plan. But the timeframe was a little hazy, and he had a lot of the Caliph's money to squander. Bobby never worked cheap.

So, he thought he'd spend a couple of weeks enjoying the Cyclades with her.

For her part; Holly couldn't imagine a night like she'd just had. She was a true artiste in the sack. But this man was a remorseless fucking machine. He had given her one intense orgasm after another, each one more powerful than the last. Now, she was wrung-out to the point where she was boneless, and her only thought was how to keep this stud in her bed.

He was clearly Arab and rich, perhaps the son of a Saudi oil sheikh? His villa was one of those multi-million dollar places up in the hills behind the town, with a panoramic view of the Mediterranean and the mountains of Delos in the distance.

Delos is purportedly the birthplace of Apollo. Looking at the man she'd just fucked, Holly could imagine where the classical Greeks got the idea.

She had come into Mykonos on Trey's Mangusta 130-footer. The two of them had been touring out of Port Hercules. That's the best deepwater harbor in the entire western Mediterranean and it has the advantage of having Monte Carlo wrapped around it.

Then Trey got the call to attend one of his dreary meetings. So. Holly was on her own for a while. She entertained herself by sampling what Mykonos had to offer. It wasn't the ancient culture that she planned to enjoy. Holly was a connoisseur of men and she knew that there's nothing like a Greek for enthusiasm.

But this guy was something entirely different. It would be inaccurate to call it love. Holly never fell out of love with herself. But he had certainly scratched a deep-seated and atavistic itch and Holly wanted to find out where that led. But then again, there was a complication. Her husband would be back soon. So, they had to come up with a plan.

She swung her legs out of the bed. Her big melon-like tits bobbled tantalizingly as she did that. He was just returning from the en-suite and their wobble had its intended effect. His eyes widened. She thought, "God! He's so gorgeous, perfectly muscled, like a hoplite warrior on a Grecian urn, lithe and lethal."

Holly was direct. She knew that a man would be a fool not to listen to what she was proposing. She said, "Last night was wonderful Baby and I want more. But my husband will return soon, and he can't find out." It wasn't that Holly cared about Trey. But she DID care about his money and there WAS a pre-nup.

Adeel gave her one of his ravishing smiles and said, "We can buy all the time we need my love. All we have to do is tell him that you've been kidnapped by my brothers in Islam ."

*****

Seriously!!?? He was going to try the "evil terrorist" ploy. I laughed and said, "Terrorists is it? Tell me... Why would DAESH be interested in a Lake Forest housewife?"

Without saying a word, Trey rose and retrieved an eight-by-ten-inch, high-definition portrait.

Okay - I could see his point.

On the sheer beauty scale, his wife Holly was in the same class as Kelly, perfect symmetrical face and features, huge blue eyes and thick blond hair. Except, where Kelly is naturally sleek and pantherish, this woman was a surgical masterpiece. There was no way those huge gravity-defying tits could be real.

I tried to keep my face blank as I said, "What makes you think she was kidnapped by terrorists?" My feigned indifference to Holly Pritman's hotness was a survival skill. It's reassuring to know that your gorgeous wife gets a little jealous. My special problem is that she is also well armed.

Trey said, "It was in the message."

I said, "Can I see it?"

He beckoned me to a Louis Quinze table. It must be nice to have 350-year-old office furniture. It had a matching chair in front and an open laptop. He sat, did a little twiddling, rose and gestured for me to sit.

I know how to check my email. But, I wasn't the one to make sense out of anything. I turned to Kelly, who was still reclining back on the couch, arms stubbornly crossed underneath her delectable chest. I said, "Could you take a look at this for me Baby?"

She was obviously intrigued. But, she had already drawn the line. So, she needed a reason to get involved. I said cajolingly, "This could actually be important. You know our NCTC contract is to monitor any potential terrorist action in the Chicago area."

The wasteful reality of our Government is that their approach to a problem is to throw big bags of cash at it until it goes away. That's why, against all logic, our services are very much in demand in some circles in DC. In our particular case it was the amorphous concept of "terrorism."

One wouldn't normally associate the "hog-butcher-for-the-world" with jihad but there are always a few rich kids and southside bangers who don't get the big-picture. So, we had a contract with the National Counter-Terrorism Center's Joint Terrorism Task Force, to monitor radical Islamic activity in the hood.

RPGs and Kalashnikovs are a lot sexier than modest nine-mils. But sane people know that you have to journey to the ass-end of the world and sell your soul to homicidal maniacs in order to get access to that kind of stuff. Our job was to deter the rare oddball, somebody who actually acts on their impulses. And yeah - we occasionally had to sit on locals who bought the ISIS party line.

Kelly got my point about the NCTC remit. Still, she had to make a show of exhaling impatiently and saying angrily, "Oh all right. I'll look at it." She walked over to the desk and sat. I noticed that Trey leered at the little jiggle that her tits made as her mouthwatering bottom hit the chair.

My wife is the smartest person I know, man, or woman. That's why she is so dangerous. Intelligent people know how to leverage the most vulnerable places in the human anatomy. So, even though Kelly is 126 pounds of gorgeous female, she is actually deadlier than I am.

The reason is my strength. I'm stronger than most people. So, I can subdue them by brute force. On the other hand, Kelly has to fracture joints, damage windpipes, or blind you to get the same result. That's the reason why it it's never wise to put her in a place where she has no other option but violence.

Kelly's intelligence is hidden behind her superb beauty and smart-ass persona. But the real Kelly is intensely focused. Her eye's locked on the message. It said, "The Mujahidin have your whore and now you must pay. Await our demands."

It was anonymized. But, you have to really know what you're doing to be truly anonymous on the internet. Kelly did some clicking and a little typing and the full SMTP message header popped up, complete with the routing information and metadata.

She copied the thread ID and pasted it into the SMTP backtracer. There was a minutes hesitation. Then the IP address popped up. She did a "whois" and the name of the owner of the IP appeared.

I just assumed it would be from some shithole place like Aleppo. Instead it was a hotel on the island of Santorini. I turned to a very concerned Trey and said, "It's a scam buddy."

He looked incredulous. Then he said in a tightly controlled voice, "No it's not. She's been missing from our yacht for the past three days. She went into Mykonos City and just disappeared. She's taken none of her things. She MUST have been kidnapped!!"

I thought, Really??!! This guy is too naïve to live.

Trey was dithering behind Kelly, when she turned to him and said bluntly, "If ISIS kidnapped her, then they must be having one hell of a good time. This is where they're holding her." Kelly popped up a picture of the Santorini Palace Hotel.

Kelly said contemptuously, "The message that you're wetting your pants about was sent from this IP address. She's cheating on you and you're wasting your time worrying about it. So, I suggest that you grow a pair and just divorce the slut. You must have a pre-nup" If Kelly is anything she's direct.

Trey looked nonplussed. Nobody talked to him like that. He said a little pissed, "You have no right to make judgements about me and how I live my life. If she's there with another man, I want to know who it is, and I want you to bring her back to me."

Kelly said angrily, "What part of - we don't take domestic cases didn't you get?" She really hates to be lectured, particularly by people she doesn't respect.

Trey said sounding freaked, "How much do you want? I'll pay you anything."

That's what it always comes down to with a dude like this. So, I reached for the stars, just to shut him up, "A half-million retainer and you pay all the expenses, say another two fifty up front." I had to make my bluff ridiculous enough to make him fold.

He said delighted, "I'll have my banker transfer it to you immediately!! Can you start today?"

Me and my big mouth!! Kelly looked like she wanted to shoot me. But I'd made the offer and he'd accepted. So, my professional ethics were at stake.

At least this new engagement semi-fit what we were supposed to be doing in our general line of work and I HAD just made more money on one domestic case than I'd seen over the past couple of years.

*****

Bobby Martinez and Adeel Al-Asad were two distinct schizophrenic personalities. So, it had always been easy for Bobby to slip back and forth between the Salafist and his former sophisticated Casanova self. That is, if the Qalandar needed him to.

The Qalandar had converted him the year before. It was one of those nasty late-April Chicago nights. Bobby had gotten the garotte around Jamil Perkins's neck and taken that mother-fucker off to whatever hell, rats are sentenced to.

The problem was that the guy in the right-hand seat of a passing cruiser happened to glance up the alley, just as Bobby was dropping the body. The cop had gotten in a lucky shot and Bobby was bleeding out, while he was huddled in a dumpster behind a place on Van Buren.

The cops were searching the dark and dripping alley with their flashlights when Bobby heard a calm, disembodied voice say, "Quick in here." The access door on the side of the dumpster slid open and a figure beckoned him into a doorway.

Bobby was cowering in a corner of the dimly lit room when the cops came to question the dude who had rescued him. There was a lot of hostility in the exchange, at least on the cops' side. When the lights came on Bobby could see why. His savior was some kind of weird looking black Muslim dude with a knit skull cap.

Bobby had witnessed a lot of bizarre afros in the projects. But the guy's grey hair stuck out everywhere. In fact, the only skin that was visible was a small area around his eyes. It made him look like a racoon. The rest of him was slim and ascetic, clad in a long white robe. The weird apparition said in a calm soothing voice, "Let me heal that wound Brother."

Bobby's family was Roman Catholic. He had plenty of bother's. This guy wasn't one of them. He knew he was dying. He said defiantly, "There's nothing you can do for me and you ain't my brother."

The strange figure said, "But I am your brother. Under Tasawwuf we are ALL brothers together. I will heal you and you will learn the truth of al-Salaf."

Bobby woke the next morning in a clean bed in a simple little room. The sunlight and warmth embraced him. There was no pain and his wound was neatly stitched and bandaged. For the first time in his short violent life Bobby Martinez felt at peace.

The door opened, and the man came in with a steaming bowl of lentil soup. He said, "Drink this brother."

Bobby had never been so hungry in his life. The warm soup filled him with happiness. He said wonderingly, "Who are you?"

The man said, "I am the Qalandar a humble servant of the Prophet. You have been brought to me to learn Allah's truth and I am chosen to teach you."

That marked the beginning of Bobby's new life. His wound kept him under the Qalandar's care and the Qalandar was a very persuasive man. They talked for hours. In an unimaginably short time Booby saw the light - so to speak.

Like most rootless people, religion gave Bobby's life the meaning he had been searching for. That meaning didn't change who Bobby was. He was still a remorseless, coldhearted killer. But now Bobby had a cause to kill for.

*****

We had a few things to do before we started out on our fool's errand. First, we confirmed that we had just acquired three-quarters of a million dollars. That was the initial inescapable condition. It made me wonder how somebody could be that stupid - or perhaps pussy-whipped.

Then, we visited a little place over on Pennsylvania Avenue.

The Hoover Building might be a bastion of backstabbing and petty rivalry. But we had to stop there because bureaucrats have to look like they're on top of things. That's what the government runs on - the impression that they're smarter than you.

If the word got back to the Feebs that one of their contractors was operating off the reservation there might be some very unfortunate repercussions. Hence, we were visiting the Hoover Building to reassure our contract officer that his butt would be kept out of a sling.

If we briefed the guy about where we were going and why, it allowed him to tell his bosses that he knew what was going on. Of course, he could always throw us under the bus later, with a short and sweet, "What can I tell you? They lied to me."

We had gotten a new contract officer since Frank McCarthy's untimely separation from government service. It was either that or jail time for Frank. The new guy was fresh out of Quantico, nauseatingly energetic and eager. His bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed demeanor made me feel like the world-weariest old-fart on the planet.

He had evidently heard that we were connected at the top. So, he was a tad wary. He took us into the normal vanilla government-issue room with a picture of the current President smirking down at us. He turned the chair around and sat like a real manly-man.

It was clear that he was showing off for Kelly. There isn't a guy born who doesn't try to impress my wife. It's a natural response to a woman as sexually attractive as she is. The problem was that Chuck leaned forward and gave her a "between-you-and-me" grin. Apparently, both he and Kelly were in on the joke that there was a geezer present - meaning me.

Kelly takes no prisoners when she thinks I'm being disrespected. So, she grinned right back and said, "What's the matter Chuck, need the extra room for the beer keg between your legs?" Then she looked at him evenly, daring him to say anything. The guy actually blushed, stood, reversed the chair and sat down chastened.

We told Chuck that we were doing a favor for Maddie Hughes. Maddie Hughes was an occasional dinner companion of the Chair of the Senate Judiciary Committee. We'd saved her son's bacon in our last exploit and she was eternally grateful. She'd cover for us.

My wife's a lot smarter and more outgoing than me. So, I supply the brooding presence while she maneuver's the victim, and Kelly was applying the lash to poor old Chuck.

We had two aims. First, we wanted to make sure that there would be no blowback about us being on Greek territory while we were chasing down Trey Pritman's errant wife. Second, we wanted to be able to tap government resources if we perchance needed them.

Kelly started by telling Chuck that we had picked up a lead on a possible serious problem. She said, "We have a tip that we have to follow overseas. It's just speculation right now. But it could be a potential terrorism exploit, originating in Chicago."

We needed to firmly establish jurisdiction or Chuck would hand the ball off to one of the minions at Langley. Kelly added, "For the time being, we just need for you to know that we are trying to confirm it. The JTTF will be the first to know if we DO find something substantive."

Kelly didn't bother to tell poor old Chuck that the tip was bogus, and we had been instructed to bring the wayward wife back in a sack.

*****

Getting to Santorini wasn't as hard as one might think. There's a decent regional airport on the east side of the island. It looks like every other airport built in the 1970s, when the tourist flying boom really took off - so to speak. It was small and neat.

Of course, you can't just fly direct. We had to hop there from Gatwick. The Brits fly everywhere and with its bargain-basement reputation, the EasyJet 737 was surprisingly comfortable. We landed three hours later in bright late morning sun. I can understand why the Brits like the Mediterranean, given that we'd climbed into rainy, heavy overcast in the UK.

With its whitewashed walls and blue azure roofs, pictures of Santorini have probably been featured in every Greek restaurant on the planet. It is actually the remnants of the island of Thera. Which blew up around 1,600 BC. Scientists speculate that might have been the most cataclysmic explosion since the meteor that wiped out the dinosaurs.