Death of A Princess
By Gwen Brown:

I lay there looking at the clock. 5:30 AM. Pretty late to get to bed. I decided to try to doze for a while. Sleep was just carrying me off to the den of Morpheus when the house phone, not my cell rang.

“Charlotte, I know it’s been a long night, but you need to come down here.” Corporal Johnson said. I couldn’t get angry at her, she would never call me at home, when I was off, unless it was like Armageddon. “OK, see you in 20.”

There were spots of blood on my uniform, so I just slipped into a Skirt and Blouse. My Oxfords were trashed, so I just slipped my runners on. All that was completely against regulations, but I was too tired to care, at all. The Squad was still a mess, so I slipped into my girl car. The trip took 10 minutes. At least my little SUV had a sticker so I could park it in with the Official cars. My civilian 1911 was nestled in my vest. They made me use their little pop gun in uniform, but in civvies, I wore what I wanted to. Still had to check it inside because the detection equipment ratted me out. “Take care of my baby, OK?” Johnson just gave me a nod.

The Captain said, “You look just like a Dick. Consider the duty permanent”.

My raised eyebrows, and sigh revealed my displeasure.

“No argument Charlotte. (I’d ditched the Persian name). We’ve been talking about this for a while. Besides, the change in status will give you the clout you are going to need now.

“Yes, sir.” I didn’t sound respectful, but I knew that he was right. “So, what was important enough to bring me in here on an hours’ sleep after an all-nighter?”

He handed me a file. “Read that and then go down to the Morgue to meet your latest subject.”

The file didn’t reveal much about the victim, but I frequented the wooded, hiking area where he was found. The body had laid out there for almost 6 months. We realized this when the Dental Record ID was out so fast. The news hit me hard, and I sat in the bathroom until I blew it off. No one bothered me. It was shattering that she 'wanted' to be female and she was murdered for it. It seemed doubly unjust because I'd still be male if they'd given me the choice. The best I could do now was come across as a pretty Dyke.

I’d met “Her”, a pre-op male before their coming out. They were the son of an acquaintance on the Paper, where I used to work.

A little about me. Before this present life, I’d worked for some people in the Government that you do not want to know about. Though no fault of my own, the operation I was on blew up and really badly. “Our Opponents” knew who I was, and that I’d gotten one of theirs killed. Sadly, they killed one of ours.

I was injured pretty badly and ended up in a hospital where no one spoke good English. I think it was Iran, though they insisted it was Persia and I could tell right away that they did not like most Iranians and the Government there. One of “ours” came to see me and said that the only way I would live was to start a new life, and never try to contact him or his colleagues again. I did not know him, and he showed no ID. I did figure out that my keepers had paid a lot to get me a try at a new life.

As soon as he walked out of the room, things started popping. Later, I would surface as a retiree from an Oil giant, and the money would take care of me and not be taxable. I would see it the second Wednesday of every month. The cover story was very simple, and he warned me not to embellish it. You will have partial amnesia so you will not remember a lot and have a good excuse.

Then came the biggest shock of it all. I would leave this country as a woman and speaking fluent Farsi. I was to feign lack of full knowledge of English. I would leave wearing a Hijab and all the Middle Eastern clothing. He admonished me to keep that up for at least six months and after that, I could take my chances. I was purportedly a refugee from Iran. I would be shorter. My female stuff would work. I would be very pretty. And they were going to implant 'things' in my brain to alter my way of thinking and memory.

“When I walk out the door, there will be no more contact with you.” He didn’t even say goodbye.

My broken arm was in a plastic cast. The Bullet hole in my chest hurt like hell, but according to the Doctor, somehow the bullet had missed anything vital. I judged it to be about noon by the position of the Sun, though I did not know the day, or how long I’d been out. There was no dinner that night and the last thing I remember was it getting dark outside.

The next weeks or months (?), I don’t know, were a mix of hazy consciousness and nightmares. I wakened for the last time feeling really out of it. The time following that was being gotten out of bed to walk, to learn how to use dilators, and feeling weak and emotional. Later as I got stronger, they were teaching me Farsi, and punishing me for trying to use English. Since I was a natural blonde, they seemed pleased with that. Previously, I had no idea that there were blondes in Persia.

I think the process took more than six months because my hair was quite long when I left. There was no question of speaking English and if I tried, I would have a full-blown episode of Disassociation. The things I did were not neglected because of the episodes of tearfulness and fear that my tears brought on because I had attempted to speak English. Must have been some sort of diversion they'd put in me. In the end, I stopped fighting it.

I left the Hospital in full Niqab and black Abaya. They'd put something in my eyes so I could not see clearly for several hours. I slept comfortably in the back of an Ambulance, and by dawn, the next day, I was getting on a patrol boat in Bandar Abbas. It took me over to Muscat, Oman.

A and a long ride in a huge container ship followed. My suite was self-contained, but my meals were brought to me. I spent lots of time on the private port side balcony. It soothed me somehow. After months and several stops, it was a surprise to find that the ship had docked in Hawaii. A refugee placement group met me at a Restaurant off the Dock. I could understand some of English but found myself unable to speak it. These people were with the Mormons and were very nice to me. One of the women, who was my favourite, spoke passable Farsi though I knew their plans because of my understanding of English. They didn’t try to do anything devious.

Her name was Helen. After lots of conversation, it was plain that they wanted to take me to America. They had planned on Salt Lake City, but I’d had enough of the desert. When I saw the area around there, I sat on the computer and eventually decided that I’d like to live in Portland, Oregon. They tried to place me out in Canby, but after a year, and having learned English after the terrors gradually diminished, I was out of there and went to Vancouver, Washington. I’d managed to stay away from Muslims, start wearing western clothing, and become “less active” with the Mormons. Everyone had been very nice, but if you are going to live your own life, it has to be yours.

In Vancouver, I found there was a Bank Account at Wells Fargo under the name of Fatma Estasi. The Money originated from ARAMCO. I wondered how the Bank had gotten my name and all that but decided that ARAMCO or someone was watching me. Eventually it was clear that I should just live my life.

In Vancouver, searching my name, I found that I was degreed in Journalism, and it seemed good. That got me an almost walk on job at a little paper there. Later on, I was offered a job with the County Sheriff there and took it. The Paper job was boring me to tears. I was more talented than Patrol Officer, but it took several years for me to reluctantly accept the Detective work that the Captain had offered.
The other Detectives almost had the case worked out by the time I got plugged in.

It seemed that she had been “out” for a while now and was a real beauty. Even her voice didn’t give her away. The Paper circulated a photo of her that made her a real heart breaker.

It seemed that she had taken to going to bars until very early in the Morning when they closed. I don’t know how she was satisfying the guys that took her out? Later it would come out, through cell phone records that he’d taken her back up into the mountains after she told him she was really male. After his arrest, he revealed that he took her up there and left her body after he’d beaten her to death.

I was so angry. It took me a long time to calm down. It was hell looking up her family and telling them. They had known that she was doing very dangerous things and were not surprised that she was dead now. When she was buried, I went to the funeral with them.

This was a waste, such a waste.

After the Funeral, I wasn't going back to the shop. I drove up to where the search team had found her and sat in my car and cried until I was completely drained. Then there was a tap on my window. Looking outside I saw a man. With my hand on my 1911, I rolled it down.

"A shame, this one. She had promise." He had an almost undetectable accent that let me know that I was in great danger and would still be even if I shot this man. It was clear to me that he was a Soviet Agent. His gaze was full of appraisal.

"Yes, she did. I knew her father." I wondered if he or his partner would let me live?

"We know that you shot our agent, but found that he was actually working for you. Your agent that we killed was not a very good one. He was going to turn on you." He looked at me for a while. "We have been watching you and know that you have not interfered in our business. Stay out of the Spy business. I do not want to kill such a beautiful woman. The Persians did a very good job on you. Were it possible, sometime, I would share some Vodka with you."

He gazed at me for a moment, and was gone.

I heard a car start and a door slam. It was gone before I breathed again.