Choke Point (16 page)

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Dulwich sounds restless.

“If I represent a controlling interest in the knot shop, the way I throw suspicion off myself is to have funds I pay out to the knot shop traceable back to my account.”

Dulwich waits through a red light without speaking. “Go on,” he says, as the car rolls.

“I pay myself in cash. I make sure some of that cash is paid to the bomber. To authorities it must appear exactly as it appears to us: that I am a customer of the knot shop and that some of my cash has been used to pay for the bomb making.”

“Removing all suspicion from me.” He inhales sharply. “Genius!”

The adrenaline is being processed out of her system. She feels depressed and slightly hungover. Sad, not tired. She can’t put her finger on what’s bothering her, only that something is, and it’s the inability to identify it, to see it clearly, that increases her sense of gloom. Dulwich likes her theory; she should be celebrating. But why then is her stomach wrenching and why does she feel so antsy? She wonders if it’s because she won’t have another chance to feel as she felt in the playground for some time. All the talk of banks and money reminds her of the tediousness of her day job. John is the winner. John is the one who lives the playground every day.

She knows it isn’t true. John spends most of his time negotiating over handwoven kitchen towels and chasing down container shipments. The realization makes her feel all the worse. The majority of life is mundane. Drudgery. Time spent building up opportunity credit. Some spend such credit taking a cruise to Norway. Skiing the Alps. She wants the field.

“You okay?” Dulwich asks, attempting to reconnect with her in the mirror.

“Tired,” she lies, her eyes to the car floor.

M
aja does exactly as her mother has instructed. When she leaves the house—always in the thick of rush hour—she heads away from the shop, not toward it. Her mother may not think she understands, but she does. The visit the afternoon before has so rattled her mother that, judging by her sunken eyes and irritability, she didn’t sleep all night. Kneeling, she held Maja by the shoulders and looked her directly in the eye, detailing the route she was to take, requiring her daughter to repeat it twice.

There was no choice but for Maja to report to work. Being discovered in school instead of home sick had brought down the hammer of discipline on all her workmates. A single child misbehaving meant hell for all, and this week it was Maja’s hell brought upon them.

To lead reporters to the shop would be much worse. Her mother might be killed. She might be put into the van that she has told no one about, including her mother. The girls driven away in the van never return.

Eight blocks north, she turns left at the intersection. Three blocks west, another left. She crosses the street to the opposite sidewalk and goes six blocks. On and on, exactly as her mother told her. Finally, she makes it to the canal. She takes a moment before crossing a dirt field and approaching the side door of a concrete building. Once inside, she crosses the oversized garage where someone had long ago built windows. One last door. She stops and knocks. A man’s scruffy face peers out. She’s admitted.

There are twelve stations. Three to six girls per rug squat on the floor alongside the work. A photo of the project is taped nearby where all can see it. Another, laminated in plastic, circulates hand-to-hand as needed. Some use a coat or sweater as a mat. Most are barefoot. The residents are identified by a ring of irritation or pus above the ankle, some rings worse than others. Maja has never spoken a word to any of them, but they know the hand signals—may have invented them for all she knows.

Overcome by the smell of wool and the unpleasant odor of men, she heads to her place and sits, feeling the weight of eyes upon her from the watchers and hoping she doesn’t look as guilty as she feels. Light floods in through high glass panes. The electricity works—the men make tea—but the lights are never used. Over half the bulbs are missing.

She and the other girls have a secret: a crude language spoken with their blurring hands. Barred from speaking, the girls use the sign language to communicate basic needs and alarms.

Maja is directed by a coworker to check out the same resident who was recently beaten severely after disappearing for a day. She had run away, presumably because of the infection from the ring. The sore began to smell disgusting, and when she returned, it looked worlds better, though her body was worse for wear. They are careful to never hit the girls in the face. They hammer the bottoms of their feet; pull their hair; pour salt or lemon juice into their eyes. They strip them naked and dunk them in cold water and tell them the horrible things they are going to do to them. It’s all talk, and the girls know this, but it’s impossible not to believe it.

The sick girl’s ring wound is bandaged, but there’s no hiding how bad it is. Maja can see it in her wan complexion, the lifelessness in her eyes, the slow speed with which she knots. The other girls are working to make up for her limitation; they’ve crowded next to her to hide her hands from the watchers.

Maja sees the shop differently today. She resents the reporter’s visit. Why it should look any different is beyond her, but it does. The residents, especially. The reminder that those entering the van alone never return. Of the strict rules and harsh consequences when violated. Of her missing school for this. Of her mother’s paranoia sending her off this morning.

She flashes a signal:
Bad?

Her coworker returns it:
Yes. Trouble. You?

Maja signals. It dawns on her:
Me
.
This place. The sick girl.

The sound of the van’s engine turning over resonates through all the girls. No one looks up, but they all tense. The timing is wrong. The van is used only at the start and end of the day to transport the residents from wherever they’re kept. If it’s being used at this time, it’s to remove one or more of them.

Maja can’t breathe. Her limbs are frozen.

A watcher crosses through the stations, heading directly for her.

T
he immediate reaction to Sonia’s celebrity reminds Knox how difficult it will be to hide. The woman behind the counter of the school office can’t contain her excitement; it explodes from her eyes and her suppressed grin. Bubbly and self-conscious, she knocks over a child-decorated tin can, sending pencils flying like pick-up sticks as she reaches for the phone. She can’t stop staring.

Equally convincing is Sonia’s calm and practiced reaction. She is gracious and polite. The two women shake hands. It settles the receptionist.

They are asked to stand before a webcam and have their pictures taken. Knox and Sonia exchange a telling glance. A sticker is produced for each that they affix to themselves.

“Not terribly flattering,” Sonia says, patting her collarbone.

In Knox’s photo, his camera hangs out of view, only its neck strap showing.

The phone call brings the head of school to the desk, a sad-looking woman in her fifties in need of a makeover. Her tired eyes speak of alcoholism or drug abuse. She strives to look interested but the effort is exhausting.

“Please,” she says, motioning Sonia and Knox through and into the outer office. Heads turn toward Sonia. The woman’s office reflects her personality, austere and unchanged for far too long.

To this point, Sonia has asked for nothing. She and Knox are the victims of ceremony. Knox believes the clerk out front would have given Sonia anything she asked for, whereas this woman may need a defibrillator if she’s to speak a coherent sentence.

The head of school, Sienna Galbraith, according to the plastic stand on her desk, absorbs a lungful of air at great effort and says, “What may we do for you, Ms. Pangarkar?”

The Royal We, Knox assumes.

“I am a repor—”

“I know who you are. We are . . . so honored to have you.”

She looks over at Knox as if he’s Sonia’s Great Dane and therefore something to keep an eye on.

“I am working on a story—”

“Maja Sehovic.”

The HVAC emits an occluded, throaty rasp. Knox catches himself looking over his shoulder, searching for the source of the growl.

The woman’s connecting them to Maja disturbs both Sonia and Knox.

Why would you say that?
appears to be on the tip of Sonia’s tongue. Knox is grateful she doesn’t ask the question.

The silence begs for someone to fill it. The head of school obliges. “We’ve had a call from the mother. I informed her that without police involvement there’s really little to be done on our end. I encouraged her to involve the authorities and, as far as you’re concerned, Ms. Pangarkar, that is the beginning and end of it.” She’s a woman accustomed to speaking down to students; she apparently can’t help herself.

“It is a beginning, to be sure,” Sonia says, conniving a smile for appearance’s sake. “I believe I am in a position to get you ahead of something . . . problematic.”

“Is this connected to the series on Berna Ranatunga?”

“I am flattered.”

“Disturbing, what these people get themselves into. Using a child like that. Unforgivable, to exploit one’s child in such a manner.”

“Then you are sympathetic.”

“I have a pulse, my dear. Of course I’m sympathetic!”

This is news to Knox. He’s tempted to congratulate her.

“Whether a connection can be made between Berna and Maja . . . that remains to be seen. More pressing for you and the school is a certain visitor—a man who has made repeated visits, in fact—to this institution posing as Maja’s father.”

If it’s possible, the woman loses a shade to where her skin is a lemony cream.

“Posing?” The woman’s voice cracks.

“Maja Sehovic’s biological father is serving time in prison. There is no male guardian.”

The woman’s blank expression confirms her greatest fears: this is potentially a career-ending oversight.

“In order for him to remove a particular student—” Sienna Galbraith stabs the computer keyboard like she’s trying to crush a bug. Her face distorts as she drills deeper—apprehension, agitation, anticipation. “A visitor must be registered.” She pauses. “In the system.”

She spins her computer monitor dramatically for it to face Sonia.

“Father,” Galbraith says.

The lens cap of his camera already removed—because he sneaked a photo of Sehovic off the screen—Knox springs into action. He coughs loudly to cover the shutter noise and fires a wild shot in the general direction of the monitor where a man’s stony face looks back at them.

Do the math,
Knox wants to say. If this man is Maja’s father, he was a father at fourteen. He’s darkly complected, with a nearly shaved head and a heavy shadow of beard. Greek? Turk? Slavic? Mixed blood. A Euro mutt with dead, angry eyes. It’s the face of the enemy and Knox identifies it as such immediately, reacts to it viscerally. Coughs again, taking another photo. He simultaneously memorizes the mobile number listed among the man’s information, wondering if it’s legitimate. Could they get that kind of break?

The head of school pulls the monitor back. “I cannot give out such information, of course.”

“If it means possibly rescuing these girls?”

“To the police, of course.”

“They are not involved yet,” Sonia presses. “Whereas, I am . . . we are.” She indicates Knox. “I am able to operate in ways the police cannot, as I’m sure you understand. This hastens certain investigative avenues that become restrictive for the police.” While Galbraith considers this, Sonia continues. “How trustworthy is this individual’s phone number?”

“As to that,” the woman says, “it would have been verified at the time of registration.”

“Verified?” Knox says, unaware of a mobile phone registry.

“We had . . . that is, the Amsterdam school system . . . There was a child pornography ring. They used one or two girls . . . horrible acts.” She closes her eyes, recovers slowly. “For the photographs.” She looks at Knox’s camera. “They used dozens—hundreds—of local girls’ faces. Digitally pasted onto the bodies to give variety to their customers. It was discovered that some of the head shots were taken on school grounds. Photographs taken primarily by mobile phone. It prompted a regulation to account for the mobile numbers of all registered visitors.”

“So that number is valid?” Sonia asks anxiously.

“It was at the time of registration. Our receptionist personally calls the mobile at the time of registration. It was a horrible—despicable—case. Girls who’ve never been compromised in any way made to look like willing participants. The parents . . .”

“I remember the story,” Sonia says. “I would very much appreciate his phone number, Ms. Galbraith. I can do much more, far more, and much faster if I’m in possession of that number.”

Knox has the number memorized. He wants to prompt her, but there’s no opportunity. Sonia and Galbraith battle over the good of the whole weighed against an individual’s privacy. It’s too socialistic an argument for Galbraith. She works the keyboard, closing the file, no doubt.

“You will have to obtain this information another way.”

“What other way?” Sonia objects. “It’s a face. An unremarkable face at that. Every girl used by them is subjected to the disgrace and abuse you’ve just outlined for us. Certainly you see your own hypocrisy?”

“I will, of course, cooperate fully with the police. I promise to contact them immediately. It’s the best I can do. You must have sources within the police?”

She’s not only holding a gun to their heads, but has started a clock running as well.

“Might I suggest Chief Inspector Joshua Brower?” Knox’s speaking seems to surprise Galbraith.

“By all means,” Galbraith answers.

“Yes,” says an incredulous Sonia, “by all means.”

It was John Knox speaking, not Steele. He curses himself, but sees no reason to backtrack.

Sonia returns her attention to the head of school. “I cannot believe you would not have the child’s best interest at heart,” she says. “This will be reflected in my article. You understand?”

“I understand, Ms. Pangarkar, that my obligation is first and foremost to the child’s family and the proper authorities, and so alerted I now intend to follow through with precisely those responsibilities. Providing the man’s personal information to the press could hardly be called responsible or proper. However you choose to report that, I trust you will at least keep this in mind. And now if you both will excuse me, I have calls to make.”

Sonia is unaccustomed to losing; it’s a side of her Knox has not witnessed. He would not like to find himself on that side—he recognizes the fury of the scorned when he sees it. He takes her gently by the arm and she looks down at his grip spitefully. He lets her go.

He’d like to review what just happened. Not Sonia.

She’s gone.