Assuming Names: a con artist's masquerade (Criminal Mischief Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

firmly, “Master. They were known to everyone as master.”
     
    ~~~~~~
     
    Two hours in and I was a suicidal submissive when what I had really been going for was more along the lines of mysterious smuggler. But I didn’t know that yet. I still thought I was successfully fabricating the image of a naive woman protecting dangerous allies.
    I would occasionally try to give the impression of bringing Mike’s questioning to a close by saying, “All I really need is to get to Egypt. If you could just help me arrange a flight …” but Mike’s expression would always turn pained and I’d trail off while the preacher emphatically shook his head.
    Finally, the preacher informed me, “Alistair went to a great deal of trouble to get you clear of that life and we’re not going to send you back to it.”
    “Even if we could,” Mike added.
    At the end of four hours, I went home with a member of the church, and the next day, Mike took me to the FBI.
    We were in a front interview room with two agents. Mike outlined my story, and then I answered the same questions as the night before.
    The agents admitted they had known for some time that white women were being smuggled around the globe, but I was the first evidence they had seen.
    It was clear that everyone was fixated on the word master, and as it held their interest so keenly, I stopped trying to make it obvious I was lying. But it was going to be years before the sexual use of the word was explained to me, so in the meantime, I was thinking, “Wow, an international circle of masters smuggling women across the continents.” It sounded fascinating. I thought the women must be trained assassins, and if anything, I wished to join them.
    There was a master in every country, I assured the FBI.
    But it was beyond me to understand why the agents wanted to know if I had sex with the masters. I was insulted, answering with a frown, “No, never.”
    No one in the room believed me.
    But my genuine confusion as to why they would think it made them doubt. “Then, what were you doing with them?” one agent asked.
    “Well, certainly not that,” but I wouldn’t elaborate further.
    As I could give no details of a crime, the FBI couldn’t investigate. But they took my fingerprints, telling Mike they would run them through the system, and while they were at it, probably send the report to Washington headquarters, and maybe have a little look around, ask a few questions. But ultimately, the agents were of the opinion that this was the sort of thing Interpol should be brought in on. And because of the valise, we should go to the DEA.

Over the Falls
     
    The start of the next week, Mike and I did the whole thing again with the DEA. They took my fingerprints, made a report, and said they’d look into it. But as I wouldn’t admit any knowledge of what I was transporting, they couldn’t assume it was drugs. They told Mike to come back when it was clear.
    The following day, Mike took me back to the church. There was a psychologist waiting to talk. Again, it was the wrist. I was flummoxed as to why it kept coming up.
    The psychologist asked, “Do you want to tell me what really happened?”
    “I promise you, it was a nail. I didn’t see it in the dark, and ran my arm over it.”
    I could think of no way to explain what had happened any more convincingly unless I changed my story by adding a chain link fence to the boat.
    “You’re safe here. You can tell me. We’re alone. No one else has to know.”
    I looked suddenly troubled, but it wasn’t for any reason the psychologist suspected. I took a breath, he thought I was about to confess, but it was a breath of patience, because I needed patience if this was going to continue. I said, “Thank you, but I sincerely do not care in the least who knows. It was a stray nail in the railing.”
    From his briefcase, he pulled out the Rorschach inkblot test, and I could not stop myself from laughing.
    “Why do you find this funny?”
    “Am I