“How can you be sure you didn’t get everyone?” Marilyn asks, matching my frenzy at an adjacent cabinet.
“Because there’s no pin for the Little Five in that radio map. It’s a secret location. Secret even to the traffickers themselves.”
Marilyn stops rifling the folders. “I don’t understand. Why would they have a location they don’t know about?”
“Ravana,” I say. “Because Ravana is there. No one’s ever seen him.” I move across to the map and stab my finger into the center of Atlanta. “Because he lives here. With us. Ravana is one of ours.”
“It could be Braithwaite,” Marilyn says, continuing to look through the folders, now with greater urgency.
“Possibly. But I don’t think so.” I find a batch of records that are organized by the locations on the map. There is no folder for the Little Five. “She seemed genuinely upset. Genuinely trapped. And I don’t think she knows who Ravana is, either. I think she was getting her orders by proxy. Maybe through the shortwave. That could even be how it started for her.”
“Look at this,” Marilyn says, handing me a thick pile of papers. The front of the folder is marked “Import/Export.” Detailed reports and lists comprise most of its contents, and a cursory glance doesn’t reveal any names I know, but at the end of the pile is a schedule that catches my eye. It lists transactions over the last two years between a cell of the trafficking network based in Savannah and a fleet of transatlantic sailing ships.
“It’s a new Middle Passage,” I whisper in horrified awe. The darkness curls in around me, and my skin grows cold. “They’re trading slaves to Europe and northern Africa.” Now I know how the large collection of H&K weapons got here: they were delivered in exchange for captives taken from communities throughout Georgia and beyond.
Marilyn, looking over my shoulder, points to the last, incomplete entries in the list. “This shipment is scheduled for the morning. Leaving from here, going to Savannah. Boarding a ship bound for Portugal.”
Every entry in the list indicates the name of the transporter. The last one is a name I recognize: Ithering.
“We—” I start. I put down the file.
“We don’t have time,” Marilyn agrees. “We can’t save all of them. I know.”
I push aside junk on one of the desks and dump out a mountain of files. But nothing here is useful. I yank open a desk drawer and stop short.
A portable shortwave radio is nestled in the drawer, underneath a small stack of handwritten pages. And under the radio is a half inch thick set of sheets torn out of a pre-collapse book, bound with a heavy paperclip.
I remember what Furness told me about the one-time pad encryption being used by the numbers stations. The stations depended on a companion text that was shared by the sender and receiver. This must be it. It looks to be a dry, academic work, full of footnotes and dense type. Along the top of each page is the title of the original book: The Many Heads of Ravana.
I set it aside. It’s not going to help me find Phoebe. The handwritten notes are more promising, as they are clearly the transcriptions of messages sent to and from this office. Each is dated; the most recent is from today. Buried in the lower half of the stack is a message that anguishes me when I read it. I show it to Marilyn: we’ve found Phoebe.
Marilyn reads it aloud. “New order. Weeks to Savannah. Allow no contact.” The message is dated three days ago, on the day the four of us left the Little Five. The next handwritten transcription is longer, naming and describing Kloves, Barkov, Marilyn, and myself in sufficient detail to identify us with a cursory inspection and a few seconds of conversation.
“Ithering is taking Phoebe to Savannah today,” Marilyn says.
“Most likely,” I agree, looking through the transportation list again. “This doesn’t show any shipments to Savannah for another three weeks, and none for three weeks before today.”
I shove everything back into the drawer and take up my Remington. “We should go. We need to find Ithering, and I think I know where to start.”
We leave the way we came. Calvin, the guard who gave me boots, warned me that there would be guards on the street leading directly behind the coliseum. I don’t want to risk being caught by a patrol on the north route back to the parking lot where I saw Ithering’s trucks, so I lead Marilyn south past a baseball field and into a tree-lined residential area.
It must be close to three or four o’clock in the morning, so I’m not surprised to see the streets empty. Still, I make sure we steer clear of any large windows and move quickly across the intersections. I take us on a long counterclockwise loop around the former sports complex, now the central hub of a militarized slave-trading outpost, until I am once again on the street that runs between the militia building and the captives’ quarters in the College of Education.
Using the scope on the G36, I scan for Ithering’s caravan trucks. I don’t see the university bus or one of the U-Hauls, but the truck I recognized yesterday is still parked in its spot.
“That’s a problem,” I mutter, pointing this out to Marilyn. “I was hoping they’d all be here, so we could catch Ithering before he’s set to leave. But it looks like he’s taken them already. Probably to a staging area. We can look for a parking lot near the gate, but I’d be afraid to run into patrols there.”
“Wait,” Marilyn says, tapping my shoulder. “Look there.” She gestures toward a pair of men crossing the lot, past university police cars, toward the remaining truck.
“Stay here,” I say, trying to sound insistent. Marilyn ignores me, and together we cross the street and hurry toward the men, weapons raised.
We catch them just as they reach the truck. One of them almost screams in surprise before I crack him across the side of the face with the stock of the Remington. Marilyn, having moved past her personal distaste of violence, covers the other man with a reasonable approximation of good rifle form.
I recognize both men as part of Ithering’s crew. I’ve seen them before, many times.
“Wait! Wait!” the uninjured one shouts. I threaten him with the stock to make him quiet down. He says, “You’re looking for Norm. Right? You’re looking for Norm?” I barely get an answer out before he says, “I’ll drive! I’ll drive. No tricks, I swear.”
We leave the man with the cracked face in the parking lot. Marilyn rides in the back while I crouch down in the foot well of the cabin, the G36 aimed up at the driver as he makes his way to the perimeter gate.
I’m not an idiot. I know this is a setup. It has to be. It’s been much too easy. I could excuse the sloppiness of keeping Phoebe alive, available to be rescued, by supposing Ravana doesn’t have absolute control over this cell. They wouldn’t waste a perfectly good sixteen-year-old girl for any reason. But leaving the notes in the desk—and now that I think of it, guarding that building from only one side—were stupid mistakes. Intentional errors.
If the driver had been a better actor, it might have taken us a whole two extra minutes to get him to agree to take us to Ithering.
Why the charade? I can’t see the advantage in it, unless they are expecting to parlay and don’t want someone else to know. Perhaps there is more than one interested party in Clarke County: one that wants us dead, one that wants us—why?
We pass through the perimeter gate without incident. I can’t detect any kind of hidden signal in the way the driver speaks to the guard; perhaps they just don’t check very thoroughly when these trucks are leaving Clarke County.
Once we’re back on the loop, I rise up into the passenger seat. But we’re not on the loop for long: the driver turns off onto Milledge Avenue, exit six.
It’s later than I thought and nearly dawn. As we travel down Old Macon Highway, the driver slows the truck. His hands tense on the wheel, and I tell him to stop as we cross a bridge and approach an overpass with another gate, unguarded.
“It’s just past there,” the driver says. “There’s a house up on a hill, on the right.”
“Get out. Start walking.”
I open the truck gate and help Marilyn down. I consider giving her back the G36 and taking my Remington, but I don’t plan to let her anywhere near what’s coming.
“You need to stay safe,” I insist. “We’re out in the open. Outside the perimeter. There’s bound to be hollow-heads around here.”
“I’m coming—”
“No, you’re not.”
“Sam.”
“No. Stop thinking like that. I can’t do what needs to be done and be worrying about you at the same time.”
“I’m not some—”
“No. You’re a doctor. That’s why you’re here.” I gently clasp her face in my hands. “She was taken on my watch. From my post. This isn’t me being a hero. This is me doing my job. And when it’s done, I’m going to need you around to do yours.” I kiss her, like old times. Like no time has passed at all. “It’s not going to be today,” I tell her. “I promise you.”
Beyond the bridge and the unmanned gate is a dead-end road with two buildings on an abutting hillside. The first is a church, set far back with a long, sloping yard in front of it. To its right is the house that the driver described: a single-story home with its own sloping yard and a raised front porch. Down on the street are the other two vehicles in Ithering’s caravan, facing the main road. Surrounding everything on three sides are bushes and trees that delay the coming of dawn.
The place is a kill box. If I get any closer, the militia members I am sure are hiding in the trees and around the house will be able to pick me off in an instant. I could try to go around and approach from the rear, but I would make so much noise in those trees that they’d be able to find me just by standing still for a few seconds.
I choose to assume that they don’t plan to kill me immediately. I have to believe that they want information. The gunfight on the ramp was a result of panic on their part: they hadn’t intended to shoot every square inch of the place.
So I approach. I go first to the U-Haul and the bus, but both are empty, with their doors and gate open. I wait, listening for any change in the subtle sway of the trees, in the chirps of the birds that are getting ready for morning.
There are two paths to the house: a slightly curved walkway and a pothole-ridden driveway. I take the walk, climbing a short set of stairs, then following the brick to the porch. My heart races from the expectation of ambush, but nothing comes. I look down the slope of the yard and see the beginnings of a morning mist obscuring the road beyond. This house is outside the primary perimeter, tucked away on a dead-end street. To all appearances, it is completely abandoned, except for the fences that protect it.
The door opens, and I turn. Norm Ithering is standing on the other side of the screen, faded tattoos visible on his arms below his tee shirt.
“It’s just us,” he says, pushing open the screen. “You can leave the rifle on the porch if you like. But I’ll understand if you’d prefer to keep it.”
I do prefer to keep it. I step inside, rifle loose but ready, into a candlelit space that has the feel of a ghost house. Ithering has collected countless useless trinkets and tchotchkes, letting them fill up every surface and parts of the floor. There is no rhyme or reason to any of it: it’s not a collection of any discernible kind. I see a small pile of rings on a lamp table. Toy soldiers lined up on the mantle. Watches hanging from nails on the wall. I wonder how much of this décor used to belong to people who are now slaves. A heavily compressed sofa in the center of the room, facing a dead fireplace, is the only clutter-free area that I can see.
“I’m surprised you made it this far,” Ithering says. “You have a habit of stumbling around like a bull. The Conyers node going silent. That was you, wasn’t it? And then you killed two of Ravana’s best trappers. That’s no easy feat.” When I stare at him, uncomprehending, he adds, “I was sure it was you. Old man? Pretty boy? Yes, it was you. They like to play rough with their food.” He shrugs. “He always let them, since they were so good at their jobs. So you’ve done me a favor. Customers don’t take kindly to damaged merchandise.” Ithering rests on the edge of the ancient sofa. “You shouldn’t have come,” he says, almost pitying.
“You know why I’m here,” I counter. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“You should have known it was a trap from the beginning. I thought you were smarter. And now all the others are dead, aren’t they?”
I let him believe it. “You set the trap,” I point out. “If you didn’t expect me to come—”
“I didn’t set the trap,” he says, almost smiling. “I had nothing to do with it. Do you think I have any say in how this operation’s run? Do you think I would have let Melton and Tyler off their leashes if I did?”
“You can’t convince me you’re just a cog. You’re a transporter. Your name is all over those papers in that school you call a distribution center. And you were with Randall and Banderas. I know they’re enforcers for Ravana.”
The almost smile disappears. “Yes. Ravana. He sent the girl here, figuring you’d go after her. And our job was to eliminate you when you did. He got Clarke’s entire police force out looking for you. Just getting you here to my house put me in danger. Made me as much of a target.”
My finger slips along the trigger guard. I feel the pressure to act, to find vengeance. But that’s too sloppy, and I’m still not ready. “You can’t claim innocence in this,” I say, raising my voice, projecting as much contempt as I can. There is a lot of it. “You can’t play the victim. So Clarke County’s in bed with Ravana. You get all these shiny toys and as many slaves as you can feed. Maybe more. In exchange, you do a little dirty work from time to time. Don’t try to sell me a line about how you wish your hands were clean.”
Ithering laughs and crosses the room, exposing his back to me. From the top of a precarious pile of junk, he takes an old, scuffed two-way radio and holds it up. “One word from me and the house will be swarming with police.”
“Police,” I spit. “You don’t have police. You have soldiers.”
“Of course,” he says, nodding. “You take pride in your title, Chief Edison. So let’s call them soldiers. The point remains. I can bring them here with a word. And if you kill me, which I don’t think you’ll do, they’ll come when they don’t hear from me in twenty minutes.”
“Tell me what you want,” I say, ignoring the threats. They’re obvious and expected.
“You’re proud. So am I. So is my city. And we are a city. We’re the second largest community in Georgia now, thanks in part to Ravana. I won’t deny that. None of us would. But we are an independent city. Do you understand me?” When I don’t answer, he continues, “This isn’t Ravana’s home. He lives with you. In the Little Five. And from the absence of shock on your face, I know I was right. You already know this. You take pride in your title and your position. You’re a good cop. So be a good cop, and tell me who he is.”
“What?” I ask, feeling suddenly stupid.
“Tell me who Ravana is. Surely you know. And then we will take our soldiers, as you call them, down to the Little Five and arrest him for you. Put him on trial for his abuses. And after, once he’s executed, Clarke County will be truly independent, and the Little Five will be free to operate without interference. Without threat. We will leave you alone.”
“And in the bargain, I will leave you alone to carry on with the network.” I make sure my voice contains no hint of agreement.
Ithering points at the rifle in my arms. “That weapon. Do you know where it came from? No. A better example. The chemicals Belinda Braithwaite needs to make her biodiesel. Do you think it just grows on trees, ready to be plucked? No. It has to be discovered. We have to scour all of old Georgia. We don’t have the manpower for that on our own. We need workers. Like it or not, Edison, you benefit from this arrangement.”
“From the slaves you keep,” I say, insisting on the truth, even though it sheds light in places I wish it didn’t.
Ithering’s face reddens in the dawning glow from the windows behind me, and he shakes his radio in my direction. “This isn’t the United States of fucking America anymore. I don’t like it any more than you do, but it’s the way things have to be for now.”
My hands tense on the G36.
“If you really want it to be different,” he continues, dialing back his intensity, “then tell me who Ravana is. Let us bring him back for trial. The prodigal son returns home for judgment.”
And then I know. In an instant, I know, and it fills me with anger and sorrow in equal measure. And above it all, betrayal. The answer was always in front of me, waiting to be seen, but I’ve been blind and stupid and too willing to trust. In spite of everything that’s happened.
“Tell me who—”
Ithering doesn’t finish his demand. His head snaps back, blood and brain splashing out behind him, and he crumples to the floor in a heap of dead weight. The crack of the sniper rifle follows, and I dive to the floor, away from the shattered window.
The radio crackles, and I hear a man’s voice frantically calling for Ithering, asking about the gunshot. I crawl toward the window and quickly peek over the lip of the frame. There is no one in view, which means the shooter is probably in the trees across the street.
Ithering was the target. The shot was too centered, too perfect. But that doesn’t mean I’m not a target also. The shooter is probably one of Ravana’s men, perhaps Randall, or someone who caught wind of Ithering’s betrayal and wanted to keep things as they are.
It isn’t safe to stay in the front room, so I crawl backwards past Ithering’s body and slip into the kitchen, which isn’t visible from the front windows. There is a back door here, leading out onto a gravel yard behind the house. In the corner of the yard is a one car garage and what looks to be an apartment above it, with an external staircase. A small window faces the driveway: a perfect perch for watching the approach. I hurry across the gravel and pound up the stairs.
The Post Page 22
