Sarah Fisher - The contract

He let Leonora guide him to his suite. His slave girl walked behind, as graceful as a jungle cat. He noticed the way the other guests glanced in their direction, surreptitious glances of admiration and envy. Johnson glanced at his watch, wondering how long it might be before Peter Howard appeared.

Upstairs in the opulent suite Johnson poured himself a drink from the tray in the sitting-room and settled himself in a leather armchair near the window. The curtains had been left open so that he could watch the night. Outside the moon was dark. Johnson sipped his scotch, wishing for an instant that he had his slave girl's cat's eyes.

She had disrobed, sloughing her cloak like an unwanted skin. Barefoot, she padded around the main rooms unpacking his clothes and briefcase into the appropriate places. He had planned to wait upstairs for Peter Howard but watching her – so unconscious of her breathtaking nakedness – made him consider another alternative. The admiring glances she had received in the foyer interested him. He toyed with the idea of joining the guests downstairs.

While he drank his coffee she glanced at him, almost as if she could read the way his thoughts were working. The thong she wore divided the lips of her sex, the plaited leather buried in amongst the dark nest of hair in her groin. He beckoned to her and slipped his hand into his jacket pocket to produce a matching leather leash. She moved closer, kneeling down so that he could snap it into her collar.

Her eyes glittered for an instant as she looked up at him, and there was fear in them.

Her evening beating was due, and he seemed unusually tense.

When he was tense he would use her to relieve his feelings…

"Can you tell me what it is you're doing? Can I help?"

Angela had made coffee and was watching whilst Peter ploughed his way through line after line of computer code. He heard her voice at a distance, all his consciousness on the act of breaking into Johnson and Fielding's well oiled computer system. Beads of sweat had lifted on his forehead as he got closer and closer to the centre of the complex puzzle.

Beside him, now attached by a series of wires, the lights on the front of Magenta's control console had begun to flash in time with a corresponding series of lights on the screen. The little box purred like a cat, occasionally breaking into bursts of staccato white noise.

Angela touched him on the shoulder.

"Peter?"

He glanced across at her. She was wearing a dressing gown, open at the front to reveal the dark outlines of the leather harness he had instructed her to wear.

"You've been at this for hours. You've got to have a break."

He snorted. "I thought this was what you wanted from me? Break Johnson and Fielding."

"You're not strong enough for this yet. Is there anything I can do to help?"

Peter accepted the coffee mug she offered him and took a long swig. The bitter taste helped to clear his head.

"I knew that once I'd got in I would have to keep going. I won't get a second chance. This has got to be done in one go." He glanced at the digital clock displayed in the top left hand corner of the computer screen. "It's night time, they'll probably only have a watchman crew on security. The real computer boffins will all be at home watching TV." He pressed another key and beside him Magenta began to hum again.

He could sense Angela's anxiety but dismissed it almost at once. She was so close that he could smell the compelling scent of her sex. He was tempted to dismiss the puzzle and turn his attentions to her instead. She was contrite, anxious to please. He let his mind toy with the possibilities.

He had always liked the smell of leather, and imagined Angela in a full body suit, the intense odour of the supple hide mingling with the scent of her sweat and her excitement. Her ripe body would look stunning outlined and constricted by the tight contours of the leather. In his mind's eye her nipples protruded like ripe grapes through the little apertures cut in the leather. He would close his teeth, biting down until he could hear her hot desperate sobs from behind the mask.

The legs of the imaginary suit were divided like chaps, exposing both her quim and the curving rise of her buttocks. He would take a lipstick, outlining the outer lips of her sex until they glowed with a carmine intensity. A mouth, a dark stunning mouth that compelled him to kiss and drink from it.

Peter could almost taste Angela's juices flooding his mouth, trickling down onto his chin. As she started to twitch he imagined pulling away and driving an ice phallus deep into her. She would throw back her head in a silent scream. She couldn't see him, could barely hear him. He grinned and in his imagination drove it further into her quim. Ice and fire -

As the fantasy took on a life of its own the distant computer terminal asked him for a password. He typed it in and smiled wryly. Passion would have to wait a little longer. He had successfully made it through another layer of the complex pattern which he had devised. The only thing that really concerned him was that once he was into the heart of the machine, Johnson and Fielding's team would be able to track him, and trace where he was working from.

Should he tell Angela that with every key stroke he was laying an electronic trail that Johnson and Fielding's men could trace?

He could still taste her body. He rubbed his eyes, took another mouthful of coffee and tried to concentrate on the complex puzzle the machine had set for him.

Just two more layers and he would be in the heart of Johnson and Fielding's secret business empire. This was the computer equivalent of a secure bank vault, where electronic safety deposit boxes held details of deals, bank accounts, illegal trading, naming names and potentially having the explosive political power to topple empires.

Behind the innocuous sequences of numbers, organised crime laundered its money and dictators bought and sold arms under the discreet window dressing provided by Johnson and Fielding's financial consortium.

Another screen unfolded. Peter typed in yet another password. Behind him he heard Angela gasp as a list of familiar names moved up across the screen; well known names, names of politicians and men in power. Peter ignored her and pressed towards the last level. In the final level he could recreate Magenta, create a second key. Finally the screen displayed the message he had been searching for. A simple little display message: "Reproduce Magenta?"

He pressed yes and keyed in the words that would begin the sequence. Magenta began to whirr beside him, sounding as if it was frantically trying to set the pace for the figures and codes on the machine.

Peter swung his wheelchair round. "We're in!"

Angela's colour drained dramatically. "But you said that if you copied it they would know. What the hell are you going to do? Cover your tracks? You said yourself Johnson and Fielding wouldn't exchange Emily for Magenta. Peter, what exactly are you doing?" She peered at the screen. "Will you send it to the people you work for?"

Peter drained the last dregs of the coffee in his mug. "This will have to be one of those moments when you trust me. We need to get to Deuvar."

Angela stared at him incredulously. "Tonight?"

"Tonight! Right now! So far, nobody seems to have spotted any abnormalities in the computer programming. If they had, they'd have tried to shut me out by now. I've got no idea how long we've got before someone cries for help." He glanced up at the computer screen; a little flashing bar told him that Magenta was busy following his commands.

"How long before you want to leave?"

On the screen the bar flashed again. Peter shrugged. "If no-one sees this going on, then maybe half an hour, an hour at the most."