Paradise Burning

by Blair Bancroft

  “What I don’t understand,” Claire said, “is how customers can go in and out of there without everybody knowing about it. I mean, that area is small. Everyone knows everyone else. Strange cars parading in and out would have aroused comment in a matter of days.”

  “Which is why surveillance is so important,” Brad said. “There’s obviously a great deal we have to learn before the FBI can move in.”

  “But what do I tell Nadya?” Mandy persisted.

  “Tell her to hang tight, we’re working on it,” Brad said. “Tell her we’re devising a way to get all the girls out of there, lock up the men, and throw away the key.” With a wolfish curl of his lips he added, “Kidnapping is very much frowned upon in the U. S.”

  “It is kidnapping, isn’t it?” Mandy’s spirits perked up. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Oh, yeah, we’re way beyond prostitution. We’re talking kidnapping, international trafficking in women, assault, probable forgery. Pimping is a just a drop in the bucket.”

  Eight girls, Mandy thought. Eight. Who would be rescued because Mandy Mouse had come out from behind her computer screen and rowed an aluminum boat up a jungle river.

  Eight’s not a lot, Kira. But it helps. I ventured out of my snug little box for me, because I wanted to test myself, see if I was worthy of newfound freedom. And I found . . . payback. Not that eight’s much in the grand scheme of things, but I’ll see they’re rescued. For you. For me. For women everywhere.

  “Then we’re agreed?” Brad said. “I call Doug Chalmers tomorrow.”

  “Right.” Mandy and Peter spoke in unison.

  “Fine. Let’s have another drink and get down to the nitty gritty, like gossiping about my ex who is going to produce a first cousin who’s damn near forty years younger than I am.”

  Peter didn’t so much as flick a glance at the BLT Mandy plunked down beside his computer. He was thoroughly enjoying the wifely services, but if he made too much of them, her hackles would rise and she would retreat behind the iron curtain of rectitude and wounded ego she had so firmly erected around herself.

  Okay, so he was a bastard. A self-righteous bastard. Because there was no way he was going to admit it was all his fault. It just wasn’t so. Wasn’t a wife supposed to cleave to her husband? No, that was the good old days. He was clutching at straws. And self-justification. He’d gone off, seen the world, had not even considered celibacy an option. And when he came home, planning to revive his marriage, he’d fallen into a hot, really stupid affair practically under Mandy’s nose. He was lucky she was speaking to him, let alone serving him lunch.

  “Peter?”

  She was still there. Mandy usually slunk away as silently as she had come, careful not to disturb his train of thought. She couldn’t know that, at the moment, his book was the farthest thing from his mind.

  “Um–m?” Peter mumbled, peering at his screen, though not a word on it registered in his brain.

  “Did you know you could get sex menus for brothels on the Internet?”

  It took a minute. Peter’s head was filled with a fantasy of swinging around, grabbing his wife, making mad love right there on the floor, hard tile or no. And painfully aware he wouldn’t have trouble rising to the occasion. “Sex menus?” he repeated blankly.

  “You know,” Mandy said, “all the different kinds of services available in a brothel. Some with pictures,” she added softly.

  His only recourse, Peter decided, was a retreat to his old status as Big Brother. “Are you just getting around to that, Mouse? Old news, kid.”

  “Just because that’s the way your mind runs . . .”

  “And every other male, and a lot of curious women.”

  “It’s disgusting! “I mean, there are a lot of listings I don’t even understand.”

  And thank the good Lord for that! “Jesus, Mouse, just because you come from Boston . . .”

  “I also looked up Russian brides,” Mandy announced, her voice heavy with significant overtones.

  “Euphemism.”

  “Huh?”

  “Brides. Euphemism.”

  “Oh. Well, I thought it might be, so I tried Russian women. Believe me, that category made Russian brides look classy. Peter, they’re actually selling women over the Net.”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “No,” Mandy admitted. “It’s a bit more subtle than that.”

  Subtle. She was wearing that damn lemon scent that was so much a part of her. Nothing cloying or sweet about his Mouse. She was his plain, tight-assed, tart-tongued electronic wizard. The computer screen seemed to have gone into a tailspin, a vortex of colors swirling where only black and white should be. He was hard as a rock. Holding his breath.

  He hurt.

  “Peter . . . I’m really sorry to disturb your work, but I need to know why you’re writing this book. It’ll never make as much money as your fiction, so . . . why? I mean, you must really care, and I would have sworn Eleanor’s obsession with trafficking was half the reason you ran away—”

  “I didn’t run,” Peter interjected. “I resigned, giving due notice, and expecting my wife to come with me. Sorry. Old argument, but you know damn well it’s true.”

  “From your viewpoint.” Mandy pulled up a chair and sat down, her knees nearly touching the side of his rolling office chair. “Why a book on trafficking, Peter? You’ve got me researching the whole world, and I need to understand why. It’s not like you were ever Mr. Missionary. What’s so urgent that you have to break off a lucrative career to write about something people don’t want to know? Something so pervasive there’s not a prayer of stopping it?”

  “Have to.”

  “You know,” Mandy said slowly, “I once had a husband who was Mr. Super Investigator, always up for the toughest assignments, full of wit, charm, and an ego as big as Mt. Washington. Before too long, AKA wasn’t enough. He had to surf the world’s hotspots in high profile, writing about what he saw. Feeding his ego on his bylines. I’m not saying that’s bad,” Mandy added hastily, “just that you were ambitious, always moving on and up, becoming famous. Making more money. Pausing your career to write about trafficking doesn’t fit the profile. Things are getting a bit dicey, so I’m asking why. You must have a reason.

  “Peter . . . Peter . . .?”

  A reason. Hell, yes, he had a reason. Even if his book managed the impossible and made a small dent in the heinous trade of selling women and children into sexual slavery, the images of eleven exquisite elfin-like faces would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  He had been on alert from the moment he slipped off his shoes and entered the dimly lit room. His invitation to the inner sanctum of the Thai business community was as intriguing as it was unexpected. Foreigners, particularly kahrangs, Western foreigners, were seldom allowed access to the private pleasures of the wealthier Thai males. But Peter had done a Thai exporter a particular favor, easing a younger son’s way into the United States, complete with genuine green card. And now the favor was being returned.

  Or so Peter assumed as he padded in paper slippers across the mirror-polished floor in the wake of the young Thai who was guiding him to the room where his host, Khun Udom, was waiting. As they wound their way past the main room of one of Bangkok’s most exclusive nightclubs and down a maze of hallways to what was obviously a gathering place for private customers only, he’d been wary, the telltale hairs on the back of his neck on the prick, tingling in nameless warning. Peter knew just enough about the sprawling Thai city to be fairly certain he was not in the Patapong, Bangkok’s infamous red light district. Or if he was, the restaurant where he’d been deposited was part of a discreetly elegant outer fringe. Yet, still he was wary.

  Hell, yes, he was wary.

  In Bangkok sex was a major industry. Men came from all over the world to sample what the Thais so cheerfully offered. Not even rampant AIDS had kept Thai men from their customary three or four nights a week at a brothel. A classic shrug and an attitude of mai pen rai—ne
ver mind—prevailed. Death happens. The world goes on. A good Buddhist could always hope to be reborn into a better life.

  Therefore, Peter reasoned, it wasn’t illogical to suspect that Thun Udom’s invitation to supper might include more than Thai cuisine. Peter had already prepared several excuses, including sudden illness, which would get him out of the restaurant without insulting his host. Unfortunately, none of them would uphold the dignity of macho Western male civilization.

  Talk about a rock and a hard place!

  And now, as Peter eyed this opulent, all-male inner sanctum, he felt as if he had been dropped into a Thai version of The Arabian Nights. The room, spacious without losing an air of intimacy, shimmered in red and gold from the silk brocade on the walls to swaths of gold gauze suspended from the ceiling. Delicate gold wind chimes tinkled softly under the pulse of woven bamboo fans. Beneath the graceful draperies in the center of the room was a raised dais twice the height of the low dining tables set against the outside walls of the room. A shallow step surrounded the dais, allowing it to be approached from any direction. At the moment the stage was empty.

  Just entertainment, Peter told himself. Dancers maybe? But he had a bad feeling about that dais.

  A canopy of intricately carved teak, supported by equally elaborate wooden columns, ran along all four sides of the room, providing an illusion of sheltered privacy over low teak tables set on a bed of colorful fringed carpets. Peter shot darting glances at the tables as he followed his guide across the room. Men in western business suits, men in colorful batik sarongs, men in cowboy boots, men who had failed to remove their telltale Aussie hats. He thought he spotted an Israeli he had met at the hotel.

  Peter was conscious of disappointment. In spite of his vague fears, he had hoped for an insider’s look at an exclusively Thai world. Now it seemed he might be in the Patapong after all. And yet . . . these men were not your typical Patapong audience. In fact, he saw no one of any nationality he could label tourist. These were men in town on business. Just relaxing? Or were they here for something more?

  Khun Udom, the proud father, was waiting, a broad smile of welcome lighting his thin, fine-boned, ageless face. Peter sketched a polite, if slightly awkward, wai to his host—palms together, bow head, touch nose, graceful wave outward—before sinking down onto the thick carpet where Thun Udom was waiting. Peter smiled, forced the proper Thai response past his lips, even as his skin crawled. Somehow he found the room’s effect more decadent than opulent.

  Among the low murmurs of conversation he sensed an air of expectancy, almost like the blood scent that seemed to stir even the most phlegmatic Englishman while milling about in a swirl of hounds and horses before the start of a hunt. Peter did not care for fox hunting. Nor did he like the odd feel of tension permeating this room. A tension, almost an avidity, he couldn’t quite place.

  Although his journalist’s instincts were aroused, Peter sharply reminded himself of the Thai philosophy of mai pen rai. He was here to have a good time. The words defined the way of life in Thailand. Polite, charming, non-aggressive, live-and-let-live. If he were given to manufacturing trouble, Peter mused, he’d be living with a small, yappy dog on the fortieth floor of a condo with a twenty-four-hour security guard. Instead, he was a highly respected freelance journalist, published in magazines and newspapers around the world, and a man who was about to see his first novel make it into the bookstores.

  Short of an incoming RPG round, Peter Pennington didn’t turn tail and run. He was, after all, in a country where a man’s correct reply to the Thai equivalent of “How are you?” was “Khrap.” Peter grinned, hunkered down on the costly piles of carpets, and prepared to enjoy himself.

  The food which shortly filled the low teak table was well worth the swallowing of his qualms, although Peter was careful to avoid the colorful array of whole red and green chilis that topped many of the dishes. The shrimp soup with lemon grass and mushrooms went down easily, but when he thought to relieve the spicy snap of green curry chicken with a bit of a tempting-looking shredded fruit salad, his eyes popped. He choked, coughed; tears streamed down his face.

  “Som-dtam,” Thun Udom explained, his brown eyes brimming with apology. “Even our own people make tears over this,” he said, handing Peter a large bright red handkerchief.

  When the shattered pieces of Peter’s head had finally coalesced, he heaped his plate with bland white rice which he topped with small portions of grilled pork, shrimp, and a dish whose main ingredient appeared to be squid. Not even a series of toasts in mekong, the potent Thai whiskey, could make him careless enough to return to the mango salad. He left that to braver men.

  As Peter bit into a second colorful confection from a tray presented at the end of the meal, his teeth suddenly clunked together, his stomach churned. Slowly, deliberately, not caring what his host might think, Peter laid the candy down onto his intricately patterned plate. He was far too mellow. The mekong alone could not account for the sluggishness tugging at his mind, nor a disturbing tendency toward moments of euphoria. He was not himself, and nothing he had done could explain it. Hell, it wasn’t the first time he’d drunk too much, yet the vast quantities of food should have countered the alcohol. What he was feeling was not at all what he usually experienced during an evening of overindulgence.

  With a conscious effort to steady himself, Peter straightened his back and surveyed the room, experiencing a sudden flash of danger as he realized he was squinting in a room which had been clearly visible an hour earlier.

  It wasn’t his vision. Or was that, too, as messed up as his mind? He refused the insidious thought. It must be smoke. But no one was smoking. Yet wispy tendrils of something had gradually turned the room’s air to the consistency of smoke around a campfire. He had eaten his meal, smiled, talked. And not noticed. The smoke filtered through the intricately patterned teak, swirled around the chugging blades of the bamboo fans, danced around the gold gauze swooping down from the ceiling. Beautiful. The patterns of light and shadow were really quite beautiful. Funny. He usually didn’t notice things like that.

  No way, Pennington. You’re not that far gone. Think, you stupid idiot. Think!

  Incense. Strong and sweet and powerful. And thoroughly doctored with hashish. Had to be. That was the only explanation. Fuck!

  Something intruded on Peter’s shock, even as he realized he was already too far gone to be angry. Thun Udom, brown eyes gleaming, pupils wide, was lifting the tray of colorful candies toward his face, urging him to try more. Hazily, Peter tried to recall how many candies the proud father had consumed. Three, at least. The Thai exporter appeared to be quite happily stoned. Because it wasn’t just the braziers merrily burning in the four corners of the room; it was that deceptive plate of delicious little candies that had added the decided afterglow to the evening.

  As what was left of his brain screamed No! Peter saw his hand reach toward the plate. He should go home, run for it. If he had the energy to get up off the pillows, he would do just that, he thought with self-righteous smugness. If he could trust his legs not to turn to jelly. And, hell, now he had figured out what was going on, was there any harm in joining in the evening’s entertainment? After all, he didn’t want to insult his host. Peter Pennington was a big boy now. Hashish was only a bit stronger than marijuana. Or at least that was true of the stuff that had been around when he was in college. It wasn’t any worse—maybe not as bad—as getting blind drunk. Except that the mekong had him halfway there already.

  Later he would realize that his slow, careful rationalization was that first candy doing his thinking for him. But at the time . . . well, hell, go with the flow. When in Rome and all that . . . He was Peter Pennington, the guy with a penchant for exotic locales, new experiences. He probably outweighed his companion, who’d had three of the damn things, by seventy pounds. He could handle it.

  The second candied confection slid easily down his throat, instantly spreading its message of good cheer, camaraderie and mai pen rai thr
ough his now featherweight, yet throbbing, veins. Or was that the first confection? he wondered with a momentary flash of reason. And the second one hadn’t even kicked in yet? Well, shit, it was too late to do a damn thing about it. It would take a crane to get his large American body up off the carpet. Whatever was going to happen, he would have to ride it out and make a note never to let it happen again.

  A gong sounded. Peter dragged his head up. He must have been dreaming, falling into the set for The King and I. He couldn’t have actually heard a gong. Or tinkling cymbals. Or drums. He blinked to clear away the drifts of smoke that seemed to have obscured his eyes as well as his brain. A row of exquisitely beautiful dolls was threading its way into the room. Tiny, graceful automatons, moving with mincing steps, heads bowed, hands folded in the graceful wai of respect and greeting. Each wore traditional Thai dress in intricately patterned, brilliantly colored batik.

  Not dolls. Not robots.

  Children.

  Jesus!

  Thun Udom was saying something. Peter leaned closer, trying to understand. Auction. His Thai host was apologizing. He had not expected an auction. But, mai pen rai, the girls they wanted would come later. Meanwhile, have more mekong, more candy. Enjoy.

  Peter’s toes curled. For a moment he felt more sober than he had ever been before in his life. It was like the day he was shown a children’s ward in Iraq where nearly all the small victims had lost hands, arms, or legs to insurgent bombs. These Thai children were about to lose something just as precious. Their innocence. And their freedom.

  Peter, struggling, signaled a waiter and ordered a pot of tea. He took deep breaths, grimaced as he recalled the insidious smoke from the braziers. Reaching for depths he rarely had to call upon, he slowly forced himself to an awareness of the details surrounding him. The air of expectancy that had permeated the room had risen to palpable, salacious desire, only slightly tempered by cynical, hard-headed realism. Obviously, most of the men here had known about the auction; or, if not, were simply riveted by the sight before them. The room hummed with excitement. The smell of sexual craving was sickening.