Shit!Is this what Jeff meant by her being an escape artist? She’d done the same thing yesterday, slipping away from class without me noticing and making me feel incompetent. I’d found her blithely sipping coffee at the courtyard café with a couple of other students, a twenty-something year old guy showing far too much interest in her. She seemed surprised at my snarl of anger. Didn’t she understand what my job was? Even if she wasn’t in danger, there were protocols that needed to be followed for Christ sake!Standing, blocking the hall to the living room, I waited. When she emerged, she walked towards me. I didn’t move.Callie stopped and stared up at me. “What’s your problem?”“We need to have a talk.”“So talk,” she replied, trying to ease around me.I didn’t budge.“Move!” she ordered, pushing me with a hand. I didn’t. Her pale blue eyes turned up to stare in defiance, flashing with indignation.“There’s nothing for dinner. We’re going to eat out at a restaurant,” I informed her.She. Judging by her dress of a hastily thrown on dressing gown, her hair in a mess and cum trickling down her thighs, she and Jazzer must have been indulging in rumpty pumpty when I had banged on the door.I called out in English, "Get your clothes on Jazzer, and come out here!" I sat in an easy chair and addressed Greta, in German. "You, Greta, make us some coffee -- and get yourself looking decent." She looked at me in amazement but disappeared into the kitchen.Jazzer came out of the bedroom, a mixture of sheepishness, stubbornness and fear on his young face. I indicated for him to sit down, and then I talked to him like a Dutch uncle. I pointed out Greta's occupation of whore; I pointed out the disparity of their ages. I pointed out that if he didn't return with me voluntarily I would lamp him and drag him back to barracks, where he would spend the rest of the year in the cells, before being court martialled.Jazzer wasn't stupid, and seeing Greta in the full light of day–it was very dim.
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