“I haven’t heard anything about this,” Declan interjected.
“Precisely,” Cameron said. “Neither has Ms. Azizi. She called Dubai on Wednesday, and then again on Thursday, asking for our office director, Hosni Shaaban. The receptionist assured her that he was in the office, but he hasn’t called her back. She was planning to take the story to the BBC, but Kent intervened. His team was at Sun Star last week doing interviews. One of the workers told them about Al-Karama. Kent reached out to Ms. Azizi, and she told him the story.”
Declan shook his head angrily. “Dubai is an information laundry. They whitewash everything. It’s not just Jordan either. It’s Pakistan, Mauritius, Madagascar. I’ve talked to Hosni Shaaban myself about the lack of detail in their audit reports. He says the reason we don’t see problems is that they don’t exist. He’s a snake-oil salesman.”
“He’s not alone,” said Victoria. “Other companies have seen the same thing in the Middle East. Some people over there consider a polite lie better than an impolite truth.”
Cameron grunted. “Before this is over, we’re going to recondition them. But we have to tread lightly. The involvement of Al-Karama creates additional risk. Our messaging needs to be clear. Sexual assault is a violation of our Code of Conduct. By allowing it, Sun Star is in breach. We’re not going to tell them how to run their business, but we’re going to read them the contractual riot act.”
“What about Shaaban?” Declan asked.
Cameron gave him a devilish smile. “Leave that part to me.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE INTERCONTINENTAL HOTEL
AMMAN, JORDAN
APRIL 8, 2014
9:08 A.M.
The seven hills of Amman were as white as Arabian sand beneath the spotless blue sky. The austerity of the scene drew Cameron in, even as the glare of the sun made him squint behind the windows. He was seated in an alcove in the Club Floor Lounge of the InterContinental Hotel, the remnants of his breakfast on the table in front of him. It was morning in Jordan, but his body was certain it was still night. He felt at once lethargic and agitated, his mind alternating between spurts of activity and flats of calm. Declan was across from him, sipping his third cup of coffee, his eyes bleary and unfocused. Victoria and Kent Salazar were making conversation in the sitting area next to them, waiting for a text from Atlas’s Middle East research chief who was in the lobby anticipating the arrival of Ghada Azizi. By Cameron’s watch, she was eight minutes late.
“There he is,” Kent finally said. “They’re coming up.”
Before long, Atlas’s research chief appeared on the far side of the lounge, with Ghada Azizi behind him. The Al-Karama director was a diminutive woman, but her frame belied the intensity of her presence. Cameron noticed it right away—the purpose in her gait, the clarity in her eyes, the stalwart set of her jawline. She was younger than he was, but not much.
When she reached the alcove, she put out her hand. “Mr. Alexander,” she said in polished English fringed with the guttural accents of Arabic. “Welcome to Jordan.”
Cameron stood and smiled genuinely. “Ms. Azizi, thank you for coming. Please, have a seat. Would you like something to eat or drink?”
She shook her head abruptly, mincing no words. “I’m here for one reason—to convince your company to act. If that is not your intention, tell me now and I will contact the media.”
Cameron gestured to the seat beside him. “Please, sit. I’m not your adversary. I’m very interested in what you have to say.”
The humility of his entrée seemed to disarm her. She sat down beside the window and crossed her legs. “Your office in Dubai is a disgrace.”
Cameron softened his tone further. “I apologize for the way you were treated. It’s something I intend to address. You know the authority I carry. My promises are not empty. But your findings are more important to me. How can I help you?”
Ghada shifted in her seat, taken aback by Cameron’s solicitousness. “Sun Star Enterprises,” she said, a touch friendlier. “It is one of Jordan’s flagship factories, and you are their largest customer. They look like a model operation. If you go there, you will see it. Everything is new and shiny and neat. The workers look content. The owner, Hamad Basara, is a gentleman. But I know my Shakespeare. That same disguise is used by the devil himself.”
Cameron arched his eyebrows. He had never been impressed by hyperbole. It was a lesson his father had drummed into him as a boy. When you overstate your case, you blunt it. Your words should be precise, like the edge of a knife. But Ghada didn’t seem like the sort of person to waste her breath. Her tongue was razor sharp, as were her eyes.
“You have my attention,” he said. “Tell me what’s under the surface.”
She laid it out for him. Siraj. The young women he fancied, some of them teenagers with passports that falsified their age. One in particular: Alya Begum, a girl from Bangladesh who could have been a movie star. The product room. The pregnancies—four of them, by Al-Karama’s count. The deportations and devastated lives. All presided over by Hamad Basara. All permitted by irresponsible and sometimes crooked auditors. All perpetuated by buyers like Presto who placed order after order despite reports from the media about human rights abuses in Jordanian factories. Sun Star wasn’t the first, or even the worst, offender. Nor would it be the last—unless something changed.
As Cameron listened to her, he curled his fingers into a fist and imagined taking Siraj by the hair and hurling him off the roof of the hotel. He had never been a brawler. It was his father’s influence—brain over brawn. But the thought of a manager forcing himself on teenage girls in a factory making Presto’s clothing made him wish he could settle the score.
“Have you told this to anyone other than my people?” he asked.
“No,” Ghada said. “We did our investigation covertly. Going public is a last resort. We approached your company because Hamad Basara cares about one thing—his buyers. And Presto is responsible for about 60 percent of his capacity, from what we can tell—”
“Sixty percent?” Declan interjected. “Are you sure?”
Ghada looked at him in irritation. “That’s what the workers tell us.”
Cameron gave Declan a knowing look. Dubai had a lot of explaining to do.
“As I was saying,” Ghada went on, clearing her throat, “Hamad cares only about his buyers. The police are in his pocket. The media is irrelevant. As long as he keeps getting business, Siraj will keep raping girls.”
Cameron gave a thin smile. “That is going to end today. The only question is whether you’d like to see it.”
The caravan of three Mercedes SUVs pulled into the parking lot at Sun Star five hours later. Everyone from the gate guards to the workers in the loading bay to passersby on the street stopped and stared. Cameron emerged from the middle vehicle with Ghada Azizi. Salazar climbed out of the lead vehicle with Victoria and Declan, and the rest of Atlas’s in-country research team joined them from the rear. The coterie wasn’t essential to Cameron’s mission. He could have come alone. But multiplicity projected power. An emperor was never without his aides. And on this day, in this place, Cameron reigned supreme.
Hamad Basara, the owner, met them on the stoop in front of the office entrance. He gave Cameron a megawatt smile and pumped his hand heartily, assuring him that it was Sun Star’s highest honor to welcome such an “esteemed visitor.” But the sand dollar size of his eyes and the shiftiness of his gaze betrayed the depth of his apprehension.
He escorted them swiftly to a conference room where an assistant offered them coffee and biscuits. Then one by one he brought in his managers to offer greetings. Through it all, Cameron maintained an expression of absolute boredom, even when Siraj himself appeared and delivered an obsequious tribute to Presto’s “top-class style and loyalty.” Finally, when the last well-wisher had departed, he told the owner he wanted to speak with him in private.
Hamad inclined his head. “Certainly. My office is quite comfortable.”
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Cameron shook his head. “I’d like to see the product room.”
In an instant, Hamad’s jaw went limp and his eyes filled with fear. He was so shocked, in fact, that seconds passed before he managed to stammer out, “Of course.” Cameron kept his expression tightly controlled, but inside he felt more gratification than he had in years on the job.
The owner showed him to the sewing floor while delivering a monologue that sounded like a marketing brochure. Cameron ignored him and surveyed the factory. Ghada’s description had been spot-on. The floor was swept and decluttered, the paint on the walls bright and fresh. Even the noise was noticeably lower than it had been at Rahmani Apparel in Bangladesh. It was no wonder the auditors had been complacent.
“As you wished,” Hamad said, holding out his hand toward a door at the end of a long hallway. “This is our product room.”
“Just a minute,” Cameron said. He took out his iPhone, touched the screen a few times, then put it away. “My apologies. A text from the office.”
As soon as they entered the room, Hamad revived his monologue, parading item after item before Cameron in a kind of fashion show on hangers. Cameron paid almost no attention. He walked slowly around the room, playing out his imagination like a kite string. Though he had seen none of it, he saw it all: the setup, perfect for a predator; the girls, like low-hanging fruit; the other workers bound by fear. But there was one aspect of the conspiracy that didn’t quite fit—the complicity of Hamad and his general manager.
“So this is where he does it,” Cameron said, interrupting the owner.
Hamad frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“Siraj.” Cameron studied the owner’s face as comprehension dawned.
In desperation, Hamad tried to play the fool. “What do you mean?”
“How often does it happen?” Cameron asked. “Once a month? Once a week?” When Hamad just stared at him, he went on, “Who was it the last time? Was it Alya Begum?”
At the mention of the young woman’s name, Hamad’s hands began to tremble.
“You know who she is,” Cameron said, watching the owner’s nose twitch. “Yet you have a thousand workers on the floor. I’m curious. Have you raped her too?”
The question struck Hamad like a hatchet blow. He shook his head and waved his arms, protesting that he had never touched the girl, or any girl, that it was only Siraj, that he had no idea about the manager’s appetites when he hired him, and that he had tried to intervene but Siraj had threatened to go to the Anti-Corruption Commission and accuse him—falsely, of course—of bribing public officials. By the end of his defense, the owner was frothing at the mouth. It was pathetic and disgusting, but exactly what Cameron needed.
He took out his iPhone and put it on the table. “Everything you just told me is on this recording. If you have a prayer of keeping Presto as a customer, this is what you’re going to do. By the end of the day, you are going to terminate Siraj’s employment. By the end of the week, you are going to put him on a plane to whatever godforsaken place he came from. Your next production manager will be a saint. After that, you are going to double the pay of Alya Begum and every other girl that Al-Karama has identified as a victim. And if any of those girls happens to get pregnant, you are going to pay for their medical care and six weeks of maternity leave. You are not, under any circumstances, going to deport them. From now on, you will give Al-Karama full access to your factory. If they find anything amiss, they will report it to me.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Hamad simpered. “I will do it.”
“Oh, and those bribes you didn’t make,” Cameron said, his eyes boring into the owner. “If I ever find out you’re lying to me, we will pull all of our business immediately.”
“I am a good man, a religious man,” Hamad replied. “I do not pay bribes.”
Right. You just help your friends. “I’m finished here,” he said, taking his phone off the table and walking out of the room.
Hamad ran after him, catching up in the hallway. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to walk the floor,” Cameron replied and did just that.
With the owner on his heels, he took long strides down the sewing lines, searching the faces of the workers until he found her. It was her beauty that gave her away. Even without makeup, her hair back in a bun, Alya was one of the loveliest young women he had ever seen. She was also young enough to be his daughter. She stared back at him, at once inquisitive and anxious. For a quixotic moment, Cameron wished he could take her home with him, buy her a flat in Washington, and give her all the opportunities that the world had denied her—tutors, language lessons, college, graduate school. But that was impossible. She had a life already. He had done everything he could for her.
He moved on down the line before drawing attention to her, but on the way back he met her eyes a final time. She regarded him for a second or two, then blinked and focused again on her work. As he returned to the offices, he felt a profound sense of satisfaction. Words came to him then, words he could never speak but that perfectly expressed the attitude of his heart.
I’m sorry, Alya, for all of it. But it’s over now. As long as you are here, my word will keep you safe.
CHAPTER THREE
THE INTERCONTINENTAL HOTEL
AMMAN, JORDAN
APRIL 10, 2014
1:00 P.M.
Cameron was sitting in the dining room in his hotel suite tapping out an e-mail when he heard the reminder on his iPhone. It was six in the morning in Boston—the only appointment on his calendar he was loath to miss. Even seven time zones away, he had arranged his schedule to accommodate it. He sent the e-mail and took a breath, steeling himself against the dread. Then he placed the call. His mother answered on the second ring.
“Good morning, darling,” she said, her tone as tender as it was tremulous.
“Hi, Mom,” he replied. “What’s the word from Dr. Radcliffe?”
By the way she hesitated, he knew the prognosis wasn’t good. Despite four months of chemotherapy, the cancer had metastasized again, spreading through her lymphatic system to other parts of her liver and both of her lungs. Her doctors had tried other drugs, but they did nothing to arrest the downward spiral of the disease. Every week her mind was a little bit slower, her voice a tad frailer, and another piece of Cameron’s heart died.
“It’s in my bone marrow,” she replied. “I don’t know how much more they can do.”
Cameron closed his eyes, the pain a dull ache in his gut. “Dr. Radcliffe is the best oncologist in New England. She isn’t the kind to give up.”
“She isn’t giving up,” Iris said. “I’m the one having doubts.”
Her words reflected her weariness. She had battled the cancer for over a year, submitting her body to the knife and the heat and the poison, but the treatment had gotten her nowhere.
“You have to keep going, Mom,” Cameron urged. “We need you.”
She sniffled once, and he knew she was crying. “I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s just hard to accept.” She collected herself. “Anyway, enough about me. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” he said, still reeling from the news. “Keeping busy, as always.”
“I’m not talking about your job. How is your heart?”
He knew precisely what she meant. The second anniversary of Olivia’s death was fast approaching. But he didn’t want to go there. The thought of talking about it exhausted him.
“Are you sleeping?” she persisted. “Or are the dreams coming again?”
He steadied his hands. He wanted to flee the questions, but he knew his exertions would prove futile. She would wait until he told her the truth.
“The other night I saw it again,” he finally admitted. “Like I was there.”
He listened to her breathe and imagined her thinking what many of his friends had said over time. It could have been any of us. You didn’t kill her. You loved her. You did everything you could to stay awake. It’s not yo
ur fault. But they were wrong. What could have happened to anyone had happened only to him. And Olivia was dead because of it.
“Cameron,” Iris said, reaching out to him across the miles. “I said this a year ago, and I’ll say it again every year for as long as I’m alive. What you lost that night you can never get back. But Olivia would not want you to hate yourself. She loved you as much as any woman can love a man. What happened to her will never change that.”
The ache in his gut climbed into his head. He massaged the bridge of his nose. “I know, Mom,” he agreed, wanting nothing more than for her to stop talking.
But his mother wasn’t quite finished. “She also wouldn’t want you to live the rest of your life alone. I know that because she told me. Did she tell you?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“It doesn’t have to be now, or even soon,” Iris said, “but please don’t forget that.”
“Okay,” he replied, conceding the field. “Look, I have to go. I have a meeting.”
“At six o’clock in the morning?” she asked curiously.
“I’m in Jordan. It’s afternoon here.”
This gave her pause, but only for a moment. “I love you, Cameron. Your sisters love you. Your father loves you. We’re here for you, whatever you need.”
“I know,” he said again. “Just promise me you’ll keep fighting, no matter what.”
“I promise,” she replied, then ended the conversation on a lighter note. “Send me a picture. I’ve always wanted to see the Middle East.”
Half an hour later, Cameron left his room and found his way to the hotel courtyard. He walked past the azure swimming pool surrounded by palm trees and found a table on the stone terrace some distance away from the handful of guests enjoying a late lunch. Though the table was in the shade, he didn’t take off his sunglasses. The light in the courtyard was dazzling, and in his present emotional state, he didn’t quite trust himself to remain impassive.
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