Amazons
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A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters
I was born in Morocco into a Moroccan Jewish family. My family had been
living in Morocco for many generations after my ancestors were driven
from Spain by the Christians. I have always considered myself to be
North African.
My family were had been involved in growing flowers and I was brought up
in a town called Migouna. I spoke Arabic and Berber as my native
tongues, French, and I also spoke English. My mother had been educated
at a Jewish school in America, and I had travelled there with my parents
several times. When I was old enough I was sent to spend my later high
school years in America.
For some reason I had looked forward to a career in law enforcement, and
while I pursued a pre-law degree, I sent my details to the FBI. I
received an encouraging response, but also an invitation to join the
Central Intelligence Agency. It was only a few years after 9/11 and
they were keen to recruit Arabic speakers for monitoring communications.
The CIA paid for my studies, and I worked for them in minor roles in the
North African section. I told my parents that I had received a
scholarship but I did not give them further details. When I went back
to Morocco I kept secret all details of where I worked and what I did.
At the time I started in the North African section, Muammar Gaddafi was
an enemy of the US, despite the fact that he had condemned the 9/11
attack as part of a wider plan to bring Libya back into the
international community. It was soon after I started that Gaddafi's
regime was removed "State Sponsors of Terrorism" list, but agency plans
to remove him remained in consideration.
In September 2009 I was part of a team that followed Gaddafi and his
entourage which visited New York (pitching a tent at Donald Trump's
private estate and entertaining business proposals in return) to address
the UN General Assembly. It was then that I first encountered Gaddafi's
"Amazons".
From the 1980s Gaddafi began an internal campaign promoting equality for
women, and it was assumed that his forming an unit comprised only of
women was a part of that push. But in using them for his personal
security, it was suggested that he believed that "assassins will not
want to shoot at women". Whatever his reason, he would always have a
team from this Amazon Unit present in his home or wherever he travelled,
including overseas.
The idea of infiltrating Gaddafi's bodyguard to engineer his
assassination is not unsound, but the idea of using a man to do it seems
ridiculous. The problem was that our observations established that this
was not just show - the closest bodyguards to Gaddafi were women. If
you wanted precise removal, avoiding for example remote (drone) attack,
then you had to get past them. Or be one of them.
Up until then we had assumed that the "Amazons" were just a gimmick.
They were all hand picked for their beauty and Gaddafi was very precise
in requiring them to appear glamorous, even in fatigues. They all had
nice hairdos, makeup and nail polish, and were often dressed in what
might be described as "Sexy-soldier" outfits. But these women were
serious bodyguards.
We had verified that members of the unit had successfully defended
Gaddafi during an attack by Islamic fundamentalists in 1998, at the cost
of the life of one of them. Gaddafi was devoted to them. Maybe he just
liked being surrounded by pretty women, but these women could do the job
to.
I was on the panel looking to recruit a woman to take on this job.
Based on Gaddafi's requirements she needed to be African, Muslim, an
Arabic speaker, beautiful, and a virgin. And she would have to stay a
virgin while being a member of the Amazon Unit.
We were having problems and we started to discuss using surgery to
beautify the one candidate that we had. We extensive briefings on what
could be done. The physician we spoke with made the flippant remark
that he could turn anyone of the panel (and we were all male) into a
beautiful woman with the right procedures.
We all took that in good humour right up until our only candidate got
pregnant and announced that she was no longer interested in deployment.
One of the panel (I am not sure who) said: "Maybe it should be one of
us. At least we are not going to get pregnant." But nobody laughed.
It had to be me. I was by far the youngest, and the shortest - it was
important that I be shorter than Gaddafi, even in heels. I was North
African and a native speaker of Arabic. What is more I knew Gaddafi's
Bedouin people and felt that if I could get in front of him, I would be
selected. The only obstructions were physical.
"Everything is reversible", I was told. As a virgin it was expected
that I could tuck my genitals away, and that I would simply need breast
and butt implants. Even though young I did have a slightly receding
hairline which would require surgery to bring forward the considerable
volume I had at the back. Then, to make sure that I would pass the
test, there would be work on the brow, nose, chin and throat. My voice
could also be modified.
It could all be reversed when it was done - whatever that might be. We
still did not have a kill order.
The real problem that I faced was how to behave as a woman. It was
agreed that before any surgery was even considered I would complete a
series of tasks to see whether I could "pass" in my raw state.
Believe it or not, the CIA retains behavior coaches to help operatives
in the field in all manner of pretences. I sat down with an expert for
only two weeks and I passed the test. I say only two weeks, but it is
better to say 200 waking hours of living and breathing as a woman.
Before we even passed our plan up the line, I was sent to Field Training
Group 4, which was the group that specialized in training undercover
operatives. The most important rules were (1) Never break cover; (2)
stay in touch with a handler unless that compromises Rule (1); (3) If
possible, carry out the objective without breaking cover. For me
"cover" meant a whole lot more than all of the other guys I was training
with, but none of us could disclose details of what we were each headed
off to do.
My North Africa team received approval for the plan and I was personally
commended by the Director for volunteering. I received my citizenship
of the USA that day. My future in the Agency was assured, if I got
through it. I also received what I was told was a winning ticket in the
Vermont State Lottery nine months out - not a big win but a little
"thank-you" for putting myself in harm's way.
I presented myself for surgery. I have to say that any misgiving that I
had were overtaken by the excitement of being on my first deployment,
and it would be a big one. My face looked as if I had gone 12 rounds
with a heavyweight, I could not speak from the throat surgery and my
chest was uncomfortable for a while, but that was all bearable. It was
the beauty treatment that was the killer. I had an all body waxing and
a "face peel" which seemed to me to be 2nd degree burns administered
even before the swelling had gone from my face.
I remember looking at myself in the mirror and thinking that if the plan
was to turn me into an attractive woman, it was a complete failure.
Where I was not bandaged, I looked beaten and burnt. I felt as if I was
at least entitled to a purple heart in service of my country.
Then I went in for the extensions in my hair. Part of the surgery on my
face brought forward my hairline, but although I had not cut my hair
since the well before the whole plan developed, it was not long enough.
The extensions were the finest available and would be undetectable to
everyone except a professional, and I had a cover story for that.
My hair was to be quite long. I was told that Qaddafi preferred that.
Some of his African bodyguards wore long wigs over short hair, but in my
case, it was suggested that we go with my own hair and these extensions.
I often thought later that if I had just been able to pull my hair off,
I would not have done as good a job as I did. Having women's hair 24/7
forced me to be more feminine. You always need to pay attention to it.
Then the lessons began - haircare and deportment first, and then
skincare and makeup when I had begun to heal. That was a gradual
process but when it was over the transformation was amazing. I was
indeed, a very attractive woman. I ought to be, we had the funding to
do things right. Now it was up to me.
My cover story gave some protection. I was a village girl from the edge
of the desert in Eastern Algeria. I had learned French and some English
from the local school, but otherwise I had little knowledge of
cosmopolitan life, other than from magazines. I could say that I had no
real experience of more ornate hairdressing, makeup and fine clothes.
But my story was that I had always dreamt of having all these things.
It was a motivation for all the members of this truly elite group pf
women, to have access to a life beyond poverty, seclusion and the
absence of honor.
I knew how village women behaved from my own childhood. Muslim women
need to be very reserved in public, but I often think that they were
expected to make up for that in private, at least with other women.
Convincing Gaddafi and the men around him that I was female would be the
easy part. The hard part would be passing as female in close proximity
to (other) women.
When it was felt that I was ready, I was sent back to Morocco as the
female me, and I used an embassy staff member to help me mix with local
women. I had a few issues, but with each mistake I improved. If
mistakes were to be made, they needed to be made before I was fully
immersed.
This was a long term project, so we had the luxury of time, but my own
team was becoming impatient. I think that there may have been some
suggestion that I was starting to enjoy my cover a little too much. It
might be true that in becoming used to acting as a woman I was starting
to enjoy some of the benefits, at least when I was "Stateside" or in the
big cities of Morocco. I was attractive enough to earn glances if not
stares from men. While it initially unsettled me, I started to quite
enjoy the attention.
Once we arrived in N'Goussa, Algeria it was very different. This was a
small village not far from the border with Libya and the town of
Gadamis. If you look for these places you will see that there is
nothing but desert, except that there is an airforce base at Gadamis.
That is where the man posing as my took me to introduce me as a
volunteer.
At the time, the Amazon Unit (in Arabic al-r?hib?t al-thawriyy?t or "the
sisters of the revolution") was expanding. It would soon be at its
maximum number. "My father" was able to get a letter from the base
commander and transport to Tripoli for us both.
I was put through a series of academic tests, which I was able to pass
easily, even though I was feigning a level of education below my own
achievements. Nothing much is expected from young Muslim women in
reading and writing. I was also subjected to a physical check-up, but,
because it was done by a man and in accordance with accepted practice in
Islam, my secret was safe.
Within 6 days of leaving Algeria I was accepted and began training.
I hoped that very soon I would be in the position of being close enough
to Gaddafi to kill him on command.
...
(Just the first part. Complete stories with illustrations are available
on my Patreon page. Images for this story include press photos of
Gaddafi's glamorous Amazons protecting their lord and master)
© Maryanne Peters 2019
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