The Ambassador's Wife

The Ambassador’s Wife.

by

Angharad.

I have never been in a car that was driven so fast, the embassy’s Jaguar hit the street and Richie, that’s Corporal Richard Bassenger screamed out of the compound at goodness knows what speed and hammered away from the building. Bullets were flying all around us but thankfully they didn’t hit the car. We charged along until we finally escaped the town or should that be city? It’s a place called Amdara which probably means something like beautiful oasis or promised land, but it’s a shithole full of angry Arabs waving guns and RPGs at us, that’s rocket propelled grenades and every other flipping Amdari seems to have one. I have an SA80 in my lap along with my handbag.

Richie eased up on the speed as we drove towards the Jordanian border. “Phew, I think we just about made it,” he said, “You okay?”

“Apart from my bra rubbing, you mean?” I said back and it was true the bra was rubbing me, but it wasn’t mine, well not until an hour ago. It’s a bit of a long story, but effectively, we were part of a detachment of military police based in the Amdari embassy, as bodyguards to the Ambassador, his wife and the other staff there. Amdara has a long association with the Brits since the carve up of the Middle East between the Brits and the Frogs after World War I. It’s said the people love Florence, yeah Florence of Arabia—him in the white dress. I’ve seen the film, bit of a poof by all accounts, says me, wearing a dress—doh.

Okay, so the ambassador has to attend a meeting in Jordan with the Prime Minister or some bigwig and the day after he leaves by helicopter, all hell breaks loose. Apparently, the Amdari have been stirred up by some local sheik who reckons the ambassador’s wife disrespected him. She says he was drunk and came onto her and she told him to piss off or she’d smack him in the goolies with his Q’ran. Next thing, World War bloody three starts and they attack the embassy, with six of us there to hold off about sixty loonies with all sorts of firepower, including the previously mentioned RPGs.

Since the attacks on the RMP in Iraq when six of them were killed before reinforcements could get to them, we’ve been carrying more than peashooters—actually Heckler and Koch sidearms, even I have to carry one when on duty.

Why do I say, even I? Well, I shouldn’t be in a combat zone—not that until about three hours ago we knew we were in one—but I’m a boy soldier, only sixteen and out here at my own request to see what the RMP actually do apart from arresting drunken squaddies. My CO arranged it and here I am shitting bricks and wearing a dress.

Okay, so it’s not my usual wear and I’m not a trannie or whatever those wierdos who wear dresses are called, but here I am bewigged, wearing makeup and a dress. So what happened?

Lieutenant Smith, him with the sticky-out ears, Plug they call him behind his back, decided that the person they were after was Rosie Templeton-Barre, aka the ambassador’s missus, so if we provided a decoy, the Andari might be distracted and chase the decoy enabling the defenders to hold out until help arrives.

Well with six great lumps of redcap and me to choose from, I suppose it was no contest. Mind you I insisted that if we got caught, I wanted it written somewhere that I’m not a crossdresser or whatever and I’m doing this for Queen and country or whatever or Rosie, who is drop dead gorgeous and who flirts with us mercilessly and we love it. She’s a lot younger than him, about thirty, I’d say and absolutely beautiful. If she’s swimming in the pool or sun bathing in her bikini, the queue for the staff toilet is—you know what I mean and we’re not beating the retreat neither.

Anyway, Lt Plug, yeah look it up in the Beano, the Bash Street Kids, decided that I was the best one to wear the dress. I agreed, expecting it to be over my uniform and for as long as it takes to drive out of the city or we got caught. But no, the gorgeous Rosie decided it wouldn’t fit over my fatigues and that I needed to wear a bra and padding as well.

Once I’d agreed to do it, I had no say in it. I did keep querying it with Rosie but she told me to hush and tarted me up in a sundress with bra and panties and two balloons half filled with water to give me tits. I couldn’t believe that the dress would fit, I know I’m only sixteen and a bit on the small size, but it fitted almost like it was made for me—’cept for the boobs bit. Oh well if we get thirsty, we have a secondary supply of water and it was the bottle variety, straight from the fridge.

Shoes were some loafer things with a two inch heel, I asked her for some flats and that was what she gave me—and they fitted too. Richie was wetting himself, keeping a lookout on the back of the building from her bedroom window.

When she started on the makeup, I nearly wet meself, I mean, I’m not that butch—haven’t started shaving yet and she’s slapping eyeliner and lipstick on me—mind you feeling her hands on me face was nice, though I thought she’d take my eye out with the mascara thing. I mean—who was going to see me? But Plug agreed with her. Then came the wig, a long blonde thing which she glued onto my hairline—this is how those dancers in musicals keep the things on, they glue ’em with special glue stuff.

Next came one of her watches, a necklace and a bracelet with some screw on dangly earrings—like why? Apparently, because she’s always well dressed, doesn’t want to let the ambassador down or something. Next she’s shoving all this stuff in a handbag and holding it out for me. I took it and she insisted I hold it like a girl not a bloke—why? Because they’d spot me for a fake if I didn’t.

For the next hour I was drilled in how to walk and gesture like she did, Plug watched to make sure I did, and then it was grab a couple of litres of water each, my sun hat—jeez—stick my gun in the car ready and be seen getting into the car as we escaped. She even gave me a lesson on that, bum first then legs so you don’t show your knickers. Like it matters.

Like I said, somehow we got away and in four hours had made the Jordanian border. That’s when the next bit of fun occurred. Richie told me to pretend I was Rosie, well how was I to know her passport was in her bag and mine was back in my room at the embassy. I even had to freshen my lipstick where it had come off while drinking water.

It was really weird, having to speak to the guards at the border and pretend to be an upperclass British woman. The delay was that some of them were possibly supporters of the shithead sheik so I was interrogated by an officer who spoke better English than I did.

“Why are you seeking to join your husband, he’s in some top level meetings?”

“The embassy is under attack, Captain, we need reinforcements or the men there will be overrun and killed.”

“Why have we received no word of this attack, you’re not just trying to break into his meetings are you?”

“There are people dying back in Amdari city, you must let me speak to him.”

“I’m not authorised to do that.”

“Please.”

“You’re very beautiful, you know, typical English rose.”

I wondered if he had an eyesight defect especially as some Jordanian women are absolute crackers. Why fancy somebody who isn’t even female?

“Captain, I insist you call your commanding officer and allow me to speak to someone in charge, so we can get reinforcements to the embassy in Amdara.”

He eventually picked up a phone and spoke gibberish into it, well my Arabic is non-existent apart from ibshi and the equivalent of ‘your mother has a face like a camel’s scrotum’. Don’t think I’ll try that here, they might not think it’s funny.

A whole hour later, with the sweat causing my dress to become almost transparent and the knots in the balloons making it look like my nipples were erect, we were eventually seen by some major who also spoke perfect English—course, they’re all wearing Sandhurst tabs aren’t they. It took another half an hour while he decided whether he’d help me or not and somehow they hadn’t twigged. What are they stupid?

So my voice is a bit squeaky and I don’t shave yet, but I mean, can’t they tell the difference between a grunt and an ambassador’s wife. Finally, I got to see my ‘husband’ and told him what was happening. He could tell the difference instantly but kept it quiet when I winked at him—no, not in that way—jeez.

Twenty minutes later we were following three Apache helicopters as they sorted out the problem, with a detachment of the Royal Jordanian Army following close behind in trucks.

We still don’t know how they cut off all electronic ties to the outside world but I now possess an iPhone which no longer works—bloody Arabs—don’t they know how much they cost.

The embassy chopper was allowed to land when it was considered safe. I was still in that bloody dress and shoes with the sun hat and handbag. At least I had managed to keep hold of her passport. It was then we discovered the damage to the compound—the house had taken a direct hit on my bedroom, well the one I shared with Richie. All my clothes went up in smoke along with my IPhone charger, my bed and my collection of um—magazines—I’m a normal hetero bloke, so what.

“Well done, young Collins,” said the ambassador after everything was made safe.”I don’t know whether to shake your hand or kiss you.” Of course that had me blushing and everyone else laughing. “It’s clear that the place isn’t safe for women or children so you’ll be escorting my wife back to Aman, to our embassy there.”

“Can’t I change first, sir?”

“That could be a problem, Collins, all your stuff went up in the fire,” stated Plug.

“Don’t worry, Collins,” said Rosie smiling at me, “I’ve got a lovely dress I no longer wear which will go nicely with those shoes and bag.”

“You heard the lady, Collins—off you go...”



If you liked this post, you can leave a comment and/or a kudos!
Click the Thumbs Up! button below to leave the author a kudos:
up
282 users have voted.

And please, remember to comment, too! Thanks. 
This story is 1913 words long.