The Great Divide

by T. Davis Bunn

  “You didn’t hear that from me. But that was the word in the corridors.” Another smile, this one tinged with regret. “One of the bad guys.”

  Marcus began thinking out loud. “So if Gloria Hall did indeed go to China, and if she was investigating a factory for labor violations and disappeared …”

  The smile vanished. “I’d say she was in serious trouble. And you don’t know how serious trouble can be until you hit it in a place like China.”

  THOUGH SITUATED less than two miles from the White House, the offices for Asia Rights Watch were on the wrong end of Pennsylvania Avenue. In all his seven years of high-powered travel, Marcus had never had a reason to visit this area. His taxi passed the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, skirted the Tidal Basin, and entered the area known simply as Southwest.

  The taxi let him off in front of a new four-story structure of colonial brick. There was no sign outside the building, no indication within of who occupied the top three floors. The lobby was carpeted and sterile and quiet as a tomb. Both the entrance and the elevators were flanked by security cameras.

  Marcus exited the elevator on the fourth floor and found himself standing before double doors of reinforced steel. The hallway was compressed by a fireproofed ceiling and thick concrete walls, and was so quiet the air-conditioning shouted a constant hoarse sigh.

  He pressed a button alongside the doors. A solemn voice said, “State your business.”

  “Marcus Glenwood. I have an appointment.”

  “Look straight at the camera. No, the other one, to your right. Thank you.”

  The door clicked open. He entered a windowless reception area. Still he saw no sign announcing where he was. The desk and chairs were of light Scandinavian design, the floors and walls a uniform white. The standard drop ceiling had been removed, revealing heating ducts and lighting systems and concrete, all painted a light blue.

  “Mr. Glenwood?”

  “Yes.” He turned and adjusted his gaze downward. “Mr. Gautam, did I say that correctly?”

  “Indeed, yes.” The man did not offer his hand. Instead, he beamed broadly enough to reveal more teeth than Marcus would have thought could fit in such an undersized head. He waved down the side corridor. “Let us go and speak in my office.”

  In the privacy of the narrow hallway, Marcus asked, “Why did you take out the ceiling panels?”

  “Merely a precaution, Mr. Glenwood. Probably of no benefit.” Dee Gautam had a strong accent with American overtones. The diminutive figure led him into a windowless office as austere as the reception area. “Please to have a seat there.”

  “Thanks. Precaution against what?”

  “Attacks from above. Some of my colleagues possess a well-developed sense of paranoia.” He gave a merry laugh as he seated himself behind the desk. “Now then. What can I do for you?”

  “I mentioned on the telephone that I may be bringing legal action on behalf of a young lady who is missing in China.”

  “Indeed yes.” The man was all stick limbs and thinning black hair and skin the color of milky tea. He wore a neatly pressed short-sleeved shirt over dark trousers. “A Miss Gloria Hall.”

  “You know her?”

  “I can’t recall.” He lifted his hands from his lap and gave a broad shrug. “I meet so many people.”

  Marcus’ gaze remained fixed upon where the hands had reached, though they had now retreated back beneath the desk. He was not sure exactly what he had seen, yet it was enough to leave his stomach feeling like jellied ice. “But you might know her.”

  “I seem to recall a nice young woman who had an interest in China. I have an interest. We met. We talked. Perhaps. Or it might have been someone else.”

  “Can you recall what you might have talked about?”

  The man laughed once more, a jarring sound in this sterile womb. “If we did meet, we probably spoke of lao gai. Yes, most definitely it would be of lao gai. You know of these, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Lao gai are the invisible prisons. The ones you never hear of. Even among ourselves we never say the name very loud. Oh no. Just whisper.” He leaned across his desk and breathed, “Lao gai.” Then laughed once more.

  Marcus affected a smile. But his gaze froze on where Dee Gautam’s hands rested upon the desk. Both his thumbs seemed to have extra joints, ones that pointed the digits in the opposite from normal directions. Then they were folded back again and extended normally. But what left Marcus feeling queasy were the deep holes midway between the man’s wrists and elbows. The scars were well-healed, but still a half inch deep, as though someone had driven spikes through the bones.

  “Lao gai are everywhere, sir. Oh yes. All the provinces of China, they need places to store those who become nuisances. You wish to pester the provincial government with requests for political rights or rule of law? Fine. No problem. We invite you to be a guest of the state.”

  The arms lifted and opened wide, the broad smile returned. “Welcome to the grand hotel lao gai, you pesky fellow. Perhaps here you can learn proper respect, yes?”

  “Yes.” Marcus swallowed on a dry mouth, tried not to track the movement of those two arms. “But I thought Gloria Hall was checking out a factory.”

  The arms disappeared into his lap. “She has told you this?”

  “Not me. She left a letter with her parents.”

  “Which factory, please?”

  “I don’t know much about it. Just a number. Factory 101. Somewhere outside Hong Kong.”

  “In Guangdong Province. Yes.” The smile was gone, the dark eyes steady, measuring. “What is your interest in this, please?”

  “Gloria Hall’s parents have asked me to file suit against the factory’s alleged American partner.” Here in this place, faced with the reality of those vanished hands and all the stains hidden by these whitewashed walls, the statement sounded lame. “To be honest, there’s not much of a case. But if a partnership exists, the Americans might help locate her to avoid adverse publicity.”

  “Indeed. And the American company?”

  “New Horizons.” He steered the conversation back to his earlier question. “What would a Chinese factory have to do with one of these prisons?”

  “The lao gai network holds over two million prisoners, Mr. Glenwood. We think two million. Maybe three, maybe five. Nobody knows. Not even Beijing. You see, sir, many lao gai prisoners are not tried in a court of law. Oh no. No trial, no public record. They come before a party tribunal, or they have a military hearing. They are sentenced, whoosh, the hearing lasts two, maybe three minutes. Then they are gone for such a long time. Years. Maybe forever.”

  Marcus pressed, “And the factories?”

  “So many prisoners, all must be taught to become good Chinese citizens, yes?” He gave another of his open-armed shrugs. “What better way than with reeducation through labor?”

  “You’re saying an American company is making sports gear with political prisoners?”

  “Oh sir, there is so much to learn here. Indeed yes. You ask questions just like Gloria.”

  “So you do remember speaking with her.”

  “Yes, perhaps. These questions, and the name. Factory 101. Perhaps.” Absently he crossed his hands on the desk and stared into the distance. “This I must check into.”

  “I still don’t understand—”

  “These are not simple matters, Mr. Glenwood. Not aboveboard and straight-ahead like American business. The good Western businessman, he meets the Chinese authority. Perhaps the Chinese person is Communist Party, perhaps military, perhaps son or daughter of top official, but always they are factory owner. Always they wear two hats, but show the Western visitor only one.” The accent was stronger now, the words spoken to the blank side wall. “The Chinese official says, yes, I can make this for one-tenth the cost of your factory back home. The American, he smells big money. Does he ask, what are conditions in your factory, how do you hire your workers?”

  “Not a chance,” Marcus replied. “H
e takes the money and runs.”

  Dee Gautam gave his grand smile. “Now you understand Chinese business. Very good.”

  “But why would they kidnap an American student? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “No. Indeed not.” Absently the little man began scratching the wound on one arm. Probing gently into the hole, caressing the scar. “Unless Miss Gloria Hall discovered something they must keep secret, yes? Something we cannot be allowed to know.”

  “Like what?”

  “Ah. That we must see if we can discover.” He rose from his chair, drawing Marcus with him. “And now you must excuse me. I have an appointment on Capitol Hill. I have been given three minutes to convince one of your congressmen that more visas should be granted to victims of political terror.”

  Marcus somehow felt small walking alongside this fragile figure. “Where are you from, India?”

  “No. Close. Sri Lanka.” Dee Gautam halted by the steel doors and offered one misshapen hand. “You will take this case?”

  “Perhaps.” The deformed thumbs felt like bony knobs as Marcus gripped the hand. “If there is a case at all.”

  “Then perhaps we shall see each other again, yes? A pleasure, sir. A pleasure.”

  MARCUS ASKED HIS TAXI to stop across the street from the Chinese embassy. He got out, told the driver to wait, and crossed at the light. The embassy was sixties’ red-brick, broad and squat, set back from Connecticut Avenue by a triangular plaza sprouting a few meager shrubs. A security guard stood bored sentry duty by the glass entrance doors. A few people came and went, most wearing dark suits and professional airs. Down the street rose the Washington Hilton, and a few blocks farther was Dupont Circle. Traffic was light, the street sunny and quiet, the sky blue. No protestors, no sinister air, nothing whatsoever to connect this building to all he had just heard. Marcus climbed back in his taxi and gave a Georgetown address.

  P Street was narrow and leafy and lined with Federal row houses. Some sparkled from recent renovations, others held the weary look of long years and hard use. The taxi stopped before a house of brick and painted clapboard, well-tended but lacking the freshness of a total overhaul. The door and ground-floor shutters were painted forest green.

  Marcus climbed the brick stairs, regretting the need to meet this woman at all. He knew the type with bitter clarity—too rich, too thin, chin held high on a too-long neck. Clothes purchased from some Fifth Avenue shop known for muted plaids and clunky shoes. Vowels carefully enunciated, consonants spoken with a pretentious nasal twang. Eyes clear and gaze lofty, as if it required great effort to look down to his squalid level. Everything about her would be angled, pointed, and bony. Especially her opinions. Marcus pressed the doorbell, shields up, ready to encounter his former wife’s long-lost cousin. Or even worse, a younger version of his ex-mother-in-law. As far as he was concerned, at that moment the worst thing going for Gloria Hall was her roommate’s telephone attitude.

  The door opened. A familiar voice said, “Yes?”

  But the face did not fit the voice. “Ms. Stanstead?”

  “That’s right.” A light flickered. “You’re Marcus Glenwood.”

  “Yes.”

  The door remained barely cracked open. “You’re late.”

  It was not true, but he found no need to counter the attack. Or any desire. “Sorry.”

  “I took part of the afternoon off, and was supposed to be back at work an hour ago.” Reluctantly she released the door and let it swing wide. Marcus stepped into a narrow foyer with mint green walls and pegged floors of broad planks, probably oak. The living room to his right sported what appeared to be an original fireplace of glazed brick. “Where have you been?”

  “State Department, International Chamber of Commerce, Asia Rights Watch, Chinese embassy.” His gaze returned to the woman herself. She stood in bizarre contrast both to the house and his expectations. She wore combat boots, overblown khaki trousers, chain belt, a man’s T-shirt, and short blond hair gelled into a myriad of spikes. He realized he was staring and glanced down at his watch. “I thought we said four o’clock.”

  “Then you thought wrong. I have a meeting downtown with our Brussels group in fifteen minutes.”

  “You said you worked for a charity organization, is that right?”

  Tension vibrated the air between them. “This meeting isn’t about me, Mr. Glenwood.”

  He watched a hand reach for her head, touch the spikes, then drop to her side. He had the distinct impression she was not comfortable with herself. And everything she wore was brand-new. “Call me Marcus.”

  “Are you going after New Horizons or not?”

  “There’s not much of a case. All we could really do is blow smoke in their faces.”

  “Maybe not.” She lifted a manila folder from a side table and handed it to him. “This is the information you wanted about the Richmond trial.”

  “Great.” But his attention remained fastened upon the utterly unadorned face. Which was odd. Marcus had not paid attention to a woman in a very long time. Kirsten Stanstead had lips so pale they appeared delicate even when compressed into a hypertense line. Her nose was snubbed slightly upward, her eyebrows as pale as her hair. Her eyes were arresting. Turquoise and big, as though she had been shocked so hard the gaze had become frozen wide. Shocked and saddened both, for hers was a tragic gaze. Marcus had the fleeting impression of sapphires crushed in a blender. He searched for something more to say. “Did you happen to find an address for the plaintiff’s attorney?”

  “First page.”

  “I thought I might rent a car and drive down to Richmond and meet him.” Marcus flipped open the folder to have something to look at other than her. “Also I need the name of a good China attorney. Somebody who knows the ins and outs of their law.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. But right now I really have to be going.” Words and attitude as pointy as her hair.

  Marcus allowed himself to be led toward the front door. “You said something about more data?”

  “It’s all in a jumble. I’m sorting it as fast as I can. I’ll send it to you when it’s ready.” She actually prodded him through the portal. “Now good-bye. And don’t call me again unless you take the case.” The door slammed in punctuation to the final word.

  Marcus stood upon the top step. Silently he asked the sunlit afternoon why Kirsten Stanstead would go to so much trouble to make him detest her.

  “GLENWOOD’S DONE just about what you’d expect.”

  Randall Walker scowled at the view outside his car window. He hated the need for subterfuge and the special mobile phone used only for these calls. But loved it just the same. It was a paradox he did not need to question. He had long since grown used to the fact that many of the things in life that he adored the most were also things he was vaguely ashamed of. “And precisely what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what I said. He’s made the rounds. Met all the right people. Asked all the wrong questions.”

  “Now you look here.” Randall masked his nerves with an unaccustomed bark. He had heard too many tales about Hamper Caisse to feel comfortable dealing with the man, no matter what the cause. “I don’t pay you these ridiculous sums for you to feed me opinions. I want facts. Details. Times, dates, evidence you’ve actually done your job.”

  “The entire exercise has been a no-brainer.” The voice on the other end sounded caught midway between a whisper and a moan. Which suited the man perfectly. Randall stared at the sunlit day and saw the man himself. Small and without a single sharp angle. Wispy mustache and round-rimmed glasses. Suit as gray as his hair and eyes. Utterly without defining characteristics. Anyone glancing his way would not bother with a second look, there was so little to notice. Which meant he was superb at his job.

  “Glenwood visited the State Department, the International Chamber of Commerce, and the Asia Rights Watch. He stopped by the Chinese embassy, but didn’t have the nerve to step inside. Then he visited Hall’s roommate, that Stanstead
woman. It looked like she handed him some file.”

  “That’s bad. And the meeting at Asia Rights is even worse.” But Randall wasn’t sure this was the case. Part of him wanted to agree with Hamper Caisse and his nonchalant assessment. The man had an almost perfect record, both in gathering data and in situation analysis. Which was not what made Randall Walker nervous.

  He had heard the tales. Stories were bandied about boardrooms of companies that used Hamper Caisse’s services. How he had gained his reputation in the CIA, how he was willing to do anything for a client. Anything at all.

  Even from a distance of several hundred miles, Randall felt unnerved by the man’s grotesque mixture of docile ruthlessness. “This could mean serious trouble.”

  “I think you’re wrong. Glenwood is strictly a two-bit operator, and he’s out of his league.” If he took any pleasure in correcting Randall, it did not show. “You come across a lot of these in Washington. They show up at the occasional low-level function, scrounge for whatever crumbs they can find. One hard knock and they fold up their tents and scurry back to whatever hole they crawled out of.”

  “All right. Any idea what’s next?”

  “He was booked on the six-fifteen United flight back to Raleigh. But when he left Stanstead’s place he rented a car. Right now I’m following him through rush-hour traffic on I-95. My guess is he’s headed down to see that Richmond lawyer who kicked up such a fuss in the pollution suit. What a pair they’ll make.”

  “Stay on him,” Randall said. Then, almost to himself, “I wish I knew what was in that file.”

  “What can the Hall girl have found out? You had me check her, what, three times? She’s just another scrounger. Pity Glenwood couldn’t meet her. They’d probably have fallen for each other, right off a cliff. Saved us all a lot of trouble.”

  Randall wanted to believe him. Wanted to accept that his worry was for nothing, that the fire had been put out safely and everything was under control. But something left him uneasy. Something that could not be entirely ignored. “I want you to search the Stanstead place. Find out if there’s anything else lying around.”