It was eerily silent before the sun rose, the thick walls effectively muffling any sound from the outside world. Michelle slept beside him with her leg elevated, her breath warming his cheek. People snored all around him as he glared at the roof. Hours had passed since the group had settled; hours spent scowling at the darkness, his mind on his grandfather. What the hell did you do in Spain, sir?

Manuel Torres had never been what one could describe as an affectionate grandfather. Dressed impeccably at all hours, he had been distinctly unimpressed with his army of grandchildren, retreating to his study and effectively ignoring their visits. His life appeared devoted to his coin collection which he worked on daily. Tony had been forbidden to enter the study as his grandfather lived in daily fear that someday, one of his precious coins would go missing. Not stolen, no. His house was equipped with the best security money could buy and he owned a gun which he was fully prepared to use on any intruder. No, his coin collection's safety was threatened only from the inside, from those dreadful children who descended on his home to disturb his peace. His fears were not unjustified.

During a particularly dreary autumn both Marco and Rita had succumbed to the flu together with their youngest children, leaving Rita's parents the ungracious hosts to the ten year old Tony, eight year old Jane and six year old Marco who stubbornly eluded the infection. They had stayed in their mansion for an entire miserable week, nagged about their poor manners, forbidden to watch TV, and forced to remain indoors the entire time. The influenza was outside, their grandmother snapped when they had whined about playing outdoors. "I don't want to catch it. We're staying inside." And they had, the boredom eating away at them, until Jane came up with the bright idea one night, when their grandparents lay asleep, of playing shops.

"You need money to buy stuff," she'd insisted, preventing Tony from 'purchasing' a pillow case. "This shop is not a charity organization!" And Tony had found money, plenty of it, downstairs in the study, carrying a handful of coins back with him. They had played for the next hour, their voices rising in excitement until their grandfather appeared, thoroughly irritated, stopping in horror at the sight of his antiques scattered around his guest bedroom. Despite the hiding he gave his grandsons they failed to give him an accurate answer to his question of just how many coins they had taken. He had spent the remainder of that night sorting through his catalogues, coming up at dawn with one missing item, an ancient Minoan coin.

"Where is this one, Antonio?" he demanded, outraged. "That coin is the oldest one I own. It's worth more than your parents' house and car together!" Tears filled Tony's eyes as he stared at a picture of the missing coin, shaking his head.

"I haven't got it, sir." A second hiding followed after which they were bundled unceremoniously into his car and driven home, his grandfather insisting his parents recover that missing coin.

"I'm sure we'll find it, sir," Marco told him, a sobbing Tony clasped in his arms.

"You better!"

And they had, a fortnight later when Rita had taken them for a walk to feed the ducks and gave in to Anna's whining about an ice-cream. "Just as long as you kids returned all my money," she told them, aware of her offspring's tendency to raid her purse for coins to play with. Jane assured her all her money was back in the purse and she had bought them an ice-cream each, handing over an army of coins to a slightly irritated man.

"American money only," he snapped at the startled group, pushing a coin back at Rita. "This here is some foreign rubbish. I need another quarter!" Her fingers clasped the Minoan coin and she exchanged warm grins with Tony, who offered up a prayer of thanks, the label of 'thief' having been more than he could bear.

They had returned it that day, his grandfather replacing it in a case, unmoved at Rita's insistence that Tony hadn't deserved that final hiding.

"Oh yes he did. Set as much as a foot into this study again, Antonio, you'll regret it. You have no business among my things." And the chilly relationship had failed to thrive, his grandfather maintaining a steady indifference to their accomplishments.

So what the hell did you do in Spain, sir? How many did you kill and how? No one was exactly big on human rights back then, so it must have been bad…Unable to sleep and unwilling to disturb Michelle he lay awake in silent turmoil, drifting off a few minutes before dawn.

The clanging on the door woke them on the third morning of their captivity, the second confined to the camp. Tony rubbed the sleep from his face and sat up, pulling his towel round himself in a hurry. He decided his first priority better be collecting his clothes, wet or dry. He inched his way through the crowd and over to the well, unsurprised to find them as wet as the night before. Sighing in frustration he moved over to his deserted shelter and pulled them on, shivering in the icy wind. Sheer fury at his captivity pulsed through him; he worked off his rage by slamming his fist against the latrine wall with his full strength. A few pieces of dust slid from between the stones. Intrigued, he bent to examine the damage, jumping to his feet the moment footsteps approached.

'Tony, where are you? Breakfast is almost over. I got you a piece of bread with cheese. Your mom says it's not off, it's just goat cheese.'

'Goat cheese?' he replied, raising his eyebrows. 'Oh well, seems like we'll be tryin' all kinds of new things for a while. Was it edible?'

Michelle shook her head unhappily. 'No. Your mom says it can taste okay too, but they made it all slimy…' She attempted to run her fingers through her curls; her hands tangled an inch from her scalp. Face trembling with an emotion he read as sheer frustration, she yanked her hand out, cursing. 'There's NO WAY anyone can ever comb this out! Tony, I feel dirty. Your clothes are still wet,' she concluded, puzzled. 'You washed them.'

He nodded grimly. 'Yeah, but I don't recommend anyone else follow my example. I'm a little cold. Come on,' he said, leading the way back. 'Let's try this goat cheese.'

Judging by the slow rate of consumption and the odd expressions, he presumed the cheese would fail to make it to anyone's 'must buy' list. Settling on the floor with his back against the wall he took a tentative bite, spitting it into his palm seconds later. 'Uug.' Swallowing a few mouthfuls of the pale water that passed as 'tea' he raised guilty eyes to his wife. 'I can't.'

'Tony, you should eat everything we get. It's not enough to prevent us growing weak as it is,' she insisted in a whisper, casting a nervous glance at the surrounding passengers.

He nodded. 'You're right sweetheart,' he told her softly, an eye on the remainder of the crowd. 'Thing is, I'd struggle with this were Ali himself to hold a gun to my head. Without that…' He left the rest of the sentence unspoken, handing her the cheese. 'If anyone wants it, they're welcome.'

Michelle snorted, nodding her head in the direction of a metal can. 'You're kidding! Half the cheese is already in there!'

Tony ate his stale slice of bread, drank the 'tea' and threw the cheese into the bin. A shot startled him, causing him to jump. 'Dammit,' he muttered annoyed with himself. 'Come on honey, looks like Ali's got some pearls of wisdom to share with us all.' He was rewarded by a faint grin as he waited for her to join a few women before he followed at a more leisurely pace, taking a place at the opposite end of the crowd. Once again the fresh breeze blew through his damp clothes, raising goose bumps along his body. He pressed his arms tight against his stomach hoping to warm himself enough to listen to the speech without his teeth chattering.

Ali appeared to have something to say, waving his hand impatiently at the ground. 'Sit,' he snapped, waiting with a merciless expression while the crowd settled. Tony selected a spot beside the wall, knees drawn up to his chest behind an overweight man, managing to avoid the brunt of the wind. It appeared the terrorist's eyes sought him out in the crowd, held them for a moment and moved on. 'We're negotiating with your countries for your release,' he began, allowing a moment for relieved cries to echo from the crowd. Once again his eyes sought Tony's, who barely managed to pull an impassive mask onto his face. 'It looks promising, but it will take a little time. In the meantime, I'm going to set out a few rules for you people to follow. This is an Islamic Republic, and you will behave accordingly. Starting from today, the women will have separate sleeping quarters. When I've finished talking, you will collect your sheepskins and carry them over to that empty storeroom. Any man seen inside that room will be beheaded.' He paused for emphasis, allowing the horrified crowd to translate the word to those whose high school English had failed to cover the term. 'Let me assure you this is no idle threat.' He pulled out a sword previously concealed in his robes, brandishing it wildly through the air. 'It's a promise.'

Tony forced himself to remain as still as a statue, the only member of the group who managed it successfully. The terrorist's words instilled fresh fear into the crowd who had begun to accept their fate the previous day. They spoke among themselves in low whispers, watching Ali with the attention they would have reserved for a rabid dog.

Ali appeared satisfied with his new respect, eyeing them individually to assure them of his sincerity. 'All right, we understand this. Now to my second point.' Once again the crowd stirred, falling silent as he fired a shot in the air. 'You will listen in silence. Your clothes disgust me. They are a reminder of the decadence of your countries I would rather not have. Once I have dismissed you, you will form two queues, male and female, and pick more appropriate attire! Anyone seen without these clothes will be beheaded.' He eyed them as though seeking a protest, but none came.

Gee Almeida, I wonder what crap he's brought us to change into? You can bet it won't be good!

'Finally, idleness leads to immorality, which will not be tolerated here. You will be assigned tasks, see that you complete them. Anyone not working will remain beside their sleeping quarters. There will be no fraternization on the yard. I need three women to work in the kitchen.' His eyes searched the crowd and he pointed at an Australian woman. 'You, and you,' his finger stopped by Tony's mother, 'and you.' To his horror it pointed straight at Michelle. 'You will be responsible for cooking the food you will be pleased to hear I have managed to organize.'

Oh God protect her. Michelle in a conventional kitchen is a disaster waiting to happen! Michelle in a Stone Age kitchen…Wonder what the penalty for burnt food is. Hopefully not beheading!

Ali continued, assigning a few other women the task of washing the promised clothes, and cleaning their quarters, promising more work in the near future. He turned to the men, explaining that he was tired of seeing grass push its way between the slabs. They would remove it from the surroundings with the exception of the half of the yard he was assigning to the women. A load of stones were being delivered. He picked ten men at random, ordering them to the task of constructing a new wall to divide the group permanently. Tony shifted restlessly, hating the thought of not being able to keep his eye on his family. Ali made a few more threats as he noticed his last order aroused extreme dissatisfaction before turning to Marco. 'The kitchen is going to require plenty of water, Sombrero! As they no longer have access to the well, it will be your job to carry the water over to the door and leave it outside. Don't even think of trying to enter, or…' Marco narrowed his eyes in disgust.

'Got a problem, Sombrero?' Ali inquired, moving over the crowd to stand before him. Tony's heart skipped a beat as he noticed the man fingering his dagger.

Marco Almeida shook his head. 'No problem,' he said calmly, forcing himself to lower his eyes before the man would read his desire to wring his neck. Keep it shut! So you've changed career from architect to water carrier, well, things could still be worse. He wished Ali would leave, hating the stench emanating from the flapping robes.

'I'll be watching you, Sombrero! You seem to have picked up a poor attitude working so closely with Satan!'

Marco's eyes widened in astonishment. Whilst it was true he failed to see eye to eye with his boss on numerous occasions, the term 'Satan' was nevertheless harsher than he would use. How the hell can he know what a pain in the ass Mr. Cresford can be? Oh shit, he doesn't! He's thinking of all Americans…Anxiety for the safety of his wife and son crinkled his eyes. This man is raving mad! 'I'll bring the water,' he agreed.

'You better. What was your profession, Mexican? You're not like any other Mexicans I knew.'

'I am an architect,' he said quietly, hating the attention.

'An architect! You design palaces for the…'

'No sir. I don't design houses, I design office blocks,' he interrupted, wishing to spare Tony further insults. A few more derogatory terms, and his son was fully capable of leaping to his feet and ramming Ali through with his own dagger. He cast Tony a warning look similar to the ones he had given him as a misbehaving toddler. Keep quiet!

'You design matchboxes?' Ali snorted in disgust. 'Well, see you bring plenty of water. You'll regret it if you don't, that's a promise.'

Marco let out an audible sigh of relief as he left. Matchboxes? Well, a lot of people have problems with modern high rise buildings, but really…

Ali moved to the front, pointing to a tiny room beside the 'bedroom.' 'Your clothes are in there. I want the women to get dressed immediately.'

Michelle shook her head for the third time, lips pressed into a straight line, a look of determination on her face. Rita Almeida watched her in surprise, never having witnessed her unbreakable resolve before. 'Honey, put them on. We all need a change of clothes.' Gently but firmly she placed the bundle she had picked out from the table into her daughter-in-law's lap. Experienced with all manner of refusal, she held a t-shirt in her hands. 'Put it on, dear. It's not as though we'll be here for long.'

'I can't,' Michelle muttered, staring at the dark top and faded black skirt in silence. 'They look horrible.'

'They're your size,' her mother-in-law insisted, practical as usual. 'It's not as though there's a choice in color, sweetheart. Everything here is black, grey, brown or dark blue. And all the skirts are long. Michelle,' she said a lot quieter, pretending to hand her something, bending down so her lips touched her ear. 'It would be inadvisable to make a scene, in your position. Get changed.'

She's right, what were you thinking? Michelle stirred, never one to argue with sound commonsense. 'You're right, Rita. I'm sorry. I'm just so sick of everything, my hair's such a mess Tony would run for his life if he could get outa here, and my leg won't stop hurting…'

Warm hands ruffled her hair. 'I know, honey. I'll give you another aspirin once we collect our stuff. And you're wrong about Tony. He has his faults, they all do, but running out on someone is not one of them. He'll love you whatever your hair looks like. I'll talk to him about finding a comb. Need a hand?'

Michelle shook her head. She removed her clothes as slowly as she dared, pulling on the drab shapeless things they were all dressed in, feeling as though she had inadvertently stepped into a movie she had no desire to act in. Her own clothes were left in a large plastic bag together with everything else. She cast them a final lingering glance of regret as she hobbled to the door behind Rita. A second shock awaited her. Beside the door, piled on a chair lay a heap of black chadors. 'No,' she said emphatically as the first few women were attempting to fit into theirs.

This time she got no argument from her equally dismayed mother-in-law.

Tony rubbed his eyes, disbelieving the sight that met them as the women, previously finely dressed though a little disheveled after three days of wearing the same things emerged, all alike in identical black chadors, covered from head to toe. 'What the hell?' he gasped, his words fortunately blending in with cries of horror in several languages.

Ali waved his rifle a few feet from them and the women settled, disgruntled and ashamed. 'Alright, that's a whole lot better. Now let me warn you again, affairs will not be tolerated round here. I see just one of you looking at a man, you'll be beheaded! Same goes for you,' he continued, focusing on the men. 'Do as much as look at one of them…'

'You're crazier than you look!' Marco exclaimed, the look of distress he noticed on his wife's face outraging him. 'Some of them are our wives…'

'And you'll get them back once your countries cooperate,' Ali replied coldly. 'Let me tell you they better do, or we'll keep the women…'

'Like hell you will,' Marco snapped. 'This madness stops now.' A loud supporting chorus ended abruptly as two men hauled him to his feet and dragged him over to Ali.

'I've had about enough of you,' Ali decided, glaring at him in front of the horrified group. 'You got to learn respect, Sombrero. Remove your shirt.'

The breath caught in Tony's throat as he attempted to rise, pushed back into place by a terrorist with a rifle. Marco's eyes met his, a slight shake of the head reminding him to hold his tongue for the sake of all their lives. Satisfied that they had the men under control the terrorists moved out of the crowd, training their rifles on them.

'That was foolish of you,' Ali said, shaking his head. 'None of you men will eat tonight. Try anything like that again, you'll share the punishment. Get over to that wall,' he ordered, shoving Marco before him to the 'bedroom,' where two hooks hung from the roof. Tony watched in horror as his father's hands were shackled to the hooks, his arms straining in their sockets.

Keep it shut, Almeida. They're gonna hurt him, but they won't kill him. Keep silent or you'll all die…He forced himself to remain on the floor, fists clenched beside him. The bile rose in his throat threatening to choke him a minute later as a terrorist returned bearing a whip. Michelle and his mother cast him horrified looks. Tony moved as close to them as he was able, shaking his head at them. 'You gotta sit tight,' he whispered, hoping they heard him over the restless muttering of the crowd.

Marco drew a deep breath, narrowing his eyes. His heart hammered uncomfortably against his ribs as the man approached, positioning himself a couple of feet behind him, legs apart. Looks like you're in for a whipping. That's another new experience for you, one you could've done quite well without! You'll deal with it, and you'll do so in silence, he ordered himself, aware the slightest whimper would send both his wife and son flying to his rescue and their subsequent deaths.

The first blow cut through the air with a whoosh, adding to his fear, the blow slamming him against the stone wall, raising a welt across his unprotected shoulders. He gasped for air, drawing a deep breath as the second blow hit him above the kidneys. He tried remaining against the wall for the third blow to prevent his head slamming into it at full force, finding that his position made little difference. The force of the blows propelled him forward to matter how firmly he anchored his feet. By the fifth blow his skin broke, leaving a thin streak of blood on his back. Marco mouthed a silent prayer begging the punishment to end soon, terrified he would cry aloud.

Tony blinked back tears of rage, resolved to murder the man once he reached ten strokes, and damn the consequences. He attempted to catch a glimpse of his father's face in vain; dismayed he kept it turned away from them. Michelle and his mother clutched each other in desperation, horrified. Michelle's eyes met his, begging him to do anything to stop the torture. Once again he forced himself to shake his head at her. Focus, Almeida. You've seen crap before. You've taken it before, yourself. An eighth swish rent the silence, connecting with a sickening thud, churning his stomach. Dammit, why Papa? He's the kindest man alive, he never hurt anyone.

Ali nodded his head at the man, ending the punishment with the tenth stroke. Tony drew a shaky breath, longing to rush to his father. Once again the thought of Michelle and his mother facing such treatment forced him to hold his tongue and remain on the ground, wiping the hatred from his eyes. Ali and that other man would pay for it dearly, if it was the last thing he ever did. He comforted himself with thoughts of ripping their throats apart with his bare hands.

'Remember this,' Ali warned them, eyeing as many of them as he could. 'Next time I have to speak to one of you, I will not be as lenient! You'll get double what he got! He will stand there for the rest of the day, reminding you all that I mean exactly what I say! Don't even think of approaching him. Now I want the women on this half of the yard, and the men on the other. Go and change,' he ordered harshly, waving his hand at the tiny chamber.

Tony rose with the others, risking a few steps towards his father. 'Papa,' he said softly, unable to walk past him without checking how he had coped.

Marco turned his head slowly, giving him another nod. Tony stared at him a moment longer before he turned to follow the rest of the group. He no longer harbored any illusions they might survive until Michelle's leg healed. She needed another week for the bone to set somehow, and then he would break them out, even if he had to carry her all the way out of the country.

Ali shook his head at the woman who walked past him; head held high and calmly drew a bucket of water from the well, carrying it right past him on her way to the Mexican. Removing her handkerchief, she dipped it in the bucket, wiping the sweat from his face. For a moment he considered disciplining her as well, but the mood of the crowd had altered. Not wishing to risk a bloodbath he let her be. The sun rose higher as Rita attempted to offer her husband what comfort she could, washing the blood from his back, numbing the wounds with the freezing water. Only Marco heard her words as she tended to him, whispering encouragement and begging him to refrain from further disobedience.

'You got it, querida,' he agreed, groaning under his breath. 'I'm getting too old for this! Next time I got a problem, I'll get myself a rifle!'