Unsafe Harbor

by Jessica Speart

  In Persian, shahtoosh means “king of wool,” and that’s exactly what it is: the most expensive and luxurious wool in the world, approaching near mythic quality. The fibers are so fine, they’re almost as soft as baby’s skin. The shawls have been prized items in the dowries of well-to-do Indian brides, valued by that country’s elite, and much loved by maharajas for centuries. Legend has it that Napoleon gave one to Josephine, who was so enthralled, she immediately ordered four hundred more. Even so, the animals still managed to survive.

  They were placed on the road to extinction in the mid-eighties. That was when designers discovered the shawls and fueled a craze, making them the most coveted garments on earth. Elevated from dowry treasures to must-have accessories, the stoles became status symbols par excellence of the globe-trotting set. Tibetan antelopes, victims of fashion, have been sacrificed on the altar of human vanity ever since.

  A shy, sloe-eyed creature also called a chiru, the antelope stands four feet tall, weighs eighty pounds, and has long, elegant horns that rise almost vertically. Endowed with striking black markings and a swift, graceful gait, the animal and its fur have become legendary.

  The chiru is native to the windswept plateaus and thin air on the roof of the world. It’s there that the small antelope braves blizzards and 40-degree-below-zero temperatures at eighteen thousand feet in Tibet. Inaccessible as that seems, the high elevation hasn’t stopped poachers from going after their prey and turning the area into another Wild, Wild West.

  Organized gangs travel in high-speed jeeps across barren and rocky plateaus in order to reach remote chiru habitat. They hunt the antelope year round, filling the voracious demand for shawls in Europe, America, Hong Kong, and Japan. Unlike goats, whose wool is made into pashmina and cashmere, however, the Tibetan antelope can’t be sheared for shahtoosh. The chiru’s hair is too short; the only way to obtain it is by killing them.

  In a grim twist of fate, hunters recently discovered chiru calving grounds high in the mountains, where pregnant females gather every summer with their young. It’s when they are in the midst of giving birth that vehicles surround them at night, switch on their headlights, and blind the animals with their glare. Poachers then open fire with automatic rifles and slaughter them by the thousands.

  Those that manage to break away are chased by jeeps until they literally drop dead of stress and exhaustion. Afterward, hunters skin them on the spot, leaving behind nothing but bloody carcasses.

  The pelts are sold for $85.00 apiece to black marketers. Then merchants transport the wool by yak over remote Himalayan passes, through Nepal, and into Kashmir, where traders exchange items such as tiger bones and drugs for the pelts.

  Five pelts are required to make one of the six-foot shawls, which are spun, woven, and embroidered, with exquisite filigree, by an ancient weaving industry. From there the shawls are smuggled to fashion hot spots the likes of Paris, Milan, and New York, where they’re easily sold for $20,000 apiece.

  Only a century ago, chiru numbered over 1 million strong. But fashion demand has driven them to the brink, reducing their population by 90 percent. Tibetan antelope have now joined the ranks of tigers, rhinos, and great apes on the Endangered Species list. In another ten years, the chiru will no longer exist. Apparently, the ultimate cost of fashion is the extinction of a species.

  However, one other thing is helping to fuel their demise. Profits from their pelts are also being used to buy arms. Tibetan antelopes have become the helpless pawns in a deadly trade of guns that are funneled to Islamic militants.

  I spotted Magda’s truck parked alongside the road and quickly pulled over. She was already busy setting up for the day. Even from my car I could see the claret shawl that lay draped over her shoulders.

  “Good morning, Rachel,” she cheerfully called, upon catching sight of me. “How about a cup of coffee? I’ll make you some.”

  I got out and walked slowly toward her truck, each step feeling heavier than the last.

  “Good morning, Magda. How are you today?” I asked at the outdoor counter, as her reddened fingers placed the cup in my hands.

  I wondered if her skin would forever remain coarse and chafed from working outside in this weather.

  “I’m fine,” she said, and raised her shoulders so that the shawl rose up to meet her chin. “Things are much better now that I’m warm.”

  I had never felt more cold, partly due to the bitter wind, and partly because I knew what was about to happen next.

  “Has the shawl helped with that?” I inquired.

  “Yes,” Magda replied, her face beaming like a child.

  “Where did you say you got it again?” I asked, hoping for a different answer this time; something to placate my misgivings.

  But Magda’s demeanor quickly changed, confirming my worst suspicions.

  “I already told you. It was a gift from a friend,” she responded, her fingers nervously plucking at the fringe.

  “Would you mind taking it off for a minute? I’d like to have a closer look at the wool.”

  For the first time, I truly hated my job. But I also knew there was no other choice. Magda stared at me as a look of fear crept back into her eyes.

  “What for?” she asked dubiously.

  “I need to check something. That’s all,” I replied, my voice sounding flat to my ears.

  The woman crossed her arms defensively, and pulled the shawl about her tight as a cocoon.

  “I’m sorry, Magda. But I really must insist. Please don’t make me use my legal authority,” I said.

  But I felt like a total bitch.

  Magda reluctantly removed the shawl and handed it over as her eyes welled up with tears.

  I was once again struck by the shawl’s weight. It felt as though I were holding nothing more than a cloud. Then, following Connie’s instructions, I removed the ring from my finger—something I rarely did these days.

  In the ring’s center was a diamond; one that held special meaning. My grandfather had sewn a few gems into his coat during his rush to escape the Nazis. This was the only one that had remained when he arrived in the United States. He’d had it set in a ring when he married my grandmother.

  I cherished it not for the stone, but for what the ring revealed of my family history. It also held an important lesson. Power can be a dangerous aphrodisiac that must be used carefully.

  I hoped I was doing so now as I slid one corner of the shawl inside the ring and easily pulled it through. I could scarcely believe my eyes and drew it through once again.

  I looked up to see that Magda’s mouth was trembling.

  “Magda, this is a very expensive shawl that’s called shahtoosh. You need to tell me the truth. How did you get hold of it?” I gently questioned.

  But Magda refused to give in.

  “How many times must I tell you? My friend is very generous. It was a gift. Why are you doing this to me?” she demanded, and burst into tears. The droplets froze like tiny icicles on her skin.

  “Can you give me your friend’s name? I’ll need to ask her a few questions,” I said.

  Magda shook her head and began to sob even harder. My throat tightened as she hugged her body through the thin winter coat, her shoulders furiously quivering.

  “You won’t tell me? Or you don’t know?” I persisted. “Please talk to me, Magda. If you help me, I promise that everything will be all right.”

  However, Magda refused to listen to reason. “You’re confusing me. Please, just go away.”

  I only wish it could have been that simple. I would have liked nothing more than to walk off and pretend I’d never seen the damn shawl in the first place. However, things had gone too far for that now.

  “I’m sorry, Magda. I’m going to have to take the shawl with me. It has to be sent to our lab for testing. Shahtoosh is illegal. If that’s what this turns out to be, and you’re hiding something, you could wind up in trouble. Do you understand?”

  Magda said nothing, but stared at me through a
veil of tears. I’d never felt so wracked with guilt in all my life.

  “Listen, Magda. There’s one more thing you should know. This shawl cost twenty thousand dollars.”

  Her eyes grew wide in surprise, but she continued to remain silent.

  “Only someone very rich could afford to buy it. Even then, it would have to be purchased on the black market. Is that something you really want to be involved in? Think about it and give me a call,” I suggested.

  I pulled out a business card bearing my office and cell phone number, and placed it on the counter. Then I turned and walked back to my vehicle.

  I returned to work, haunted by the image of Magda shivering in that poor excuse for a winter coat. Still, I couldn’t stop my fingers from wandering over to the shawl. It’s allure was undeniable. So much so, that I threw it over my shoulders in the Fish and Wildlife parking lot. Then I quickly took it off, realizing that I had draped myself in a bloody shroud.

  I stashed it in my bag, hurried inside, and buried myself in paperwork. I remained there the rest of the morning until Hogan left for an early dental appointment. Only then did I scurry out of my room to show the shawl to Connie. I knocked on the door and walked into her office.

  “What’s up?” she asked from behind a stack of papers that must have mushroomed overnight.

  “You know that talk we had before? Well, I found something, and need your expert opinion. Hogan said you tripped across some shipments of shahtoosh here a few years ago. What do you think? Is that what this is?” I asked.

  The shawl unfurled in my hands like fine wine spilling from a glass.

  Connie stood up and walked over, a soft whistle escaping her lips. The material seemed to float in the air as she examined the fringe and embroidered letters.

  “You’ll have to send it to the lab for positive ID. But my guess is yes. You can see the shawl is handwoven, and these are probably the weaver’s initials. Where did you get it?” she inquired.

  “Possibly from a dead woman,” I grimly revealed.

  Connie quizzically raised an eyebrow. “The one found here at the port?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. There are still a lot of unanswered questions. Do me a favor and don’t tell Hogan. He doesn’t know about it, and I’d like it to stay that way until I’m able to get more proof,” I explained.

  “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. All I ask is that you keep me in the loop,” Connie requested.

  “You’ve got a deal,” I agreed.

  Then I packed up the shawl and sent it to our forensic lab in Oregon, along with a note. The director, Ken, was a friend, and I knew that he wouldn’t betray me.

  With that out of the way, this seemed a good time to pay my “anonymous” caller, Ms. Tiffany Stewart, a visit. I tracked down her address and took off for Manhattan.

  My Trailblazer sped along the Jersey Turnpike, running parallel to the windswept waves of the Hudson River. Their scalloped edges deftly ensnared the light. Even from here I could see old abandoned piers and the rusted girders of twisted jetties, their skeletal remains disintegrating where they dotted the opposite bank.

  I took the Lincoln Tunnel, hoping to escape downtown traffic, and instead landed smack in the bowels of Midtown. Fortunately, my city driving skills instinctively came back to me.

  I always play by my fellow drivers’ rules: ignore the traffic lanes, drive as fast as you can between lights, and don’t stop until pedestrians get within an inch or two of your bumper. My success was duly noted in a variety of nonverbal ways, also known as how New Yorkers say “Have a nice day.” Jaywalkers flipped me the bird, while cab drivers flicked their hands beneath their chins and rudely cut me off.

  I paid little heed, too caught up in all the activity going on around me. If car alarms and construction are the music of the city, then bike messengers are its chorus boys. I watched entranced as they wove in and out of traffic with the grace and ease of Broadway dancers, while taxis battled like schools of salmon struggling to swim upstream.

  I hit Broadway, a long-ago Indian trail, and headed north toward Central Park. This was my oasis in the middle of the city. It was where I escaped Manhattan’s feeling of twenty-four-hour restlessness. I turned on a cross street, entered the park’s confines, and was immediately engulfed in silence; embraced by an island within an island at the center of the world.

  Snow-laden trees posed in winter garb, their limbs as gnarled as Martha Graham dancers. Beaux Arts lampposts regally stood planted every few yards, their frames tall and thin as Ichabod Crane. A hawk soared overhead and I wondered how many people knew this was a stopover for birds on the North American flyway. Probably not as many as those who still identified the park with muggers and crime.

  I exited the park all too soon and crossed Fifth Avenue, the “Continental Divide” that separated the east from the west side. And just like that, the city once again changed. I turned on Park Avenue and entered New York’s bastion of privilege and wealth.

  This was the heart of the Upper East Side, where the oh-so-proper and the filthy rich reside. I drove past blocks of fancy town houses and snooty boutiques in which I could never afford to shop. Like it or not, I would forever be viewed as nothing more than another intruder.

  Spotting a parking space, I refused to concede until I’d managed to squeeze in my SUV. Then I grabbed my cell phone and called Tiffany Stewart’s number.

  “Hello?” answered a low, husky voice with a slight Southern twang.

  It was the kind of voice I’d always wanted—half Marlboros, half booze, and oozing with sex. No question but that this was the same person I’d heard on my answering machine.

  “Is this Tiffany Stewart?” I inquired.

  “Yes, it is. Why? Who is this?” she asked, as if poised to hang up on a telemarketer.

  “I’m agent Rachel Porter with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. You left a message for me this morning.”

  There was a moment of silence before she finally replied.

  “I’m sorry, but you must have mistaken me for somebody else,” she stiffly responded.

  “Not a chance. This is definitely the right number. You called to inform me of Bitsy von Falken’s shahtoosh shawl. There’s something I need to ask you. What color is it?” I pressed.

  My question was followed by an even longer pause than before.

  “Listen, you can’t squirm out of this,” I said. “So, let’s stop playing games. Your name and number were recorded on my caller ID.”

  “Damn, I hate those things,” she muttered half to herself. “Oh, all right. So, it was me. Big deal. I was just being a good citizen. You want to know the color of her shawl? It’s claret. There. Are you satisfied now?” she asked, dropping all pretense.

  “Not quite. I’d like to speak with you in person. Would it be all right if I come by?” I asked, fully prepared to knock down her door if necessary.

  “Hmm. Let’s see. Today is out. In fact, it looks as if my entire week is fully booked,” she responded, clearly stalling for time.

  I was damned if I’d be placed at the back of her social calendar.

  “Okay, then. How about right now?” I countered, blatantly ignoring her response.

  “Didn’t you hear what I just said? I told you that today’s out,” she repeated in annoyance.

  “Well, you’re obviously home at the moment, and I’m just around the corner. You’d be doing me a big favor. I promise to only take a few minutes of your time,” I replied, refusing to take no for an answer.

  “My place is a mess,” she volleyed in a halfhearted dodge.

  “Don’t worry. It can’t be nearly as bad as mine,” I countered.

  “I’d rather not,” she continued to resist.

  “Let me make myself clear. I can come up now. Or you can travel to Newark with your lawyer,” I responded.

  “For chrissake, what do they do—give you people a course on how to harangue your way into someone’s home?” she complained in exasperation. />
  “Yeah. As a matter of fact, it’s called Learn to be a Pushy Bitch 101,” I blithely retorted.

  I was caught off-guard as Tiffany Stewart suddenly started to laugh.

  “Okay, Sergeant Pepper. You’ve made your point. Come on up.”

  “Rachel Porter,” I corrected.

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I take it you already have the address. I’ll tell my doorman to let you in,” she replied, and hung up.

  What a pleasant surprise. This was turning out to be easier than I’d expected. Perhaps dealing with Tiffany Stewart wouldn’t be so difficult, after all.

  I walked down the block to a brand-new high rise that reeked of opulence, style, and class. It’s crisp green awning formally announced that I’d reached THE BUCKINGHAM. Catchy title. I half expected to see a changing of the guard. Instead, I was greeted by a doorman in a dark blue peacoat and a stiff-brimmed cap.

  “May I help you?” he asked, his eyes perusing my scruffy jacket, denim jeans, and kick-ass boots.

  I immediately guessed he was about to suggest that I use the delivery entrance.

  “I’m here to see Tiffany Stewart,” I quickly said, in order to spare him any embarrassment.

  But his expression clearly stated, I doubt that.

  “Your name?” he asked with a sniff, as if I were a vagrant that had wandered over from wrong side of town.

  “Special Agent Rachel Porter,” I replied in my haughtiest tone.

  “Oh yes,” he said, and one-upped me with a slow blink and the barest hint of a nod. “Mrs. Stewart is expecting you. She’s in apartment 30B on the thirtieth floor.”

  I stepped into an elevator that was bigger than my apartment. New York was definitely a city of haves and have-nots, and at the moment, I was feeling pretty low on the economic food chain. In simple terms, I was on a par with Oriental-style Cup-a-Soup while Tiffany Stewart was unquestionably New Zealand rack of lamb.

  The elevator effortlessly rose thirty floors without a hitch or a jerk, as if used to conveying valuable cargo. Its doors silently parted and I entered a hallway whose plush gray carpet muffled the sound of my footsteps.