Choke Point

by Ridley Pearson

  “A girl, nine or ten, was treated in a local health clinic. Malnourished. A circular lesion—massive infection—on her right ankle, suggesting she’d been chained. Gets treated and either flees or is kidnapped from the center. It was the shape of the ankle wound that set off all the alarms. That, and the discovery by the docs of wool and animal hair in the wound. Her fingers were observed to be heavily calloused: thumb, index, middle.”

  “I may have skimmed the article.”

  “Graham Winston did not skim it.”

  “He wants some rug factory shut down?”

  “. . . they’re called knot shops.”

  “I think of Winston as one of those names you hear on Terry Gross. He writes checks he can deduct. What’s he want with financing a battle with a bunch of Afghan thugs? If it backfires, he’ll bring them to his door. I hope you warned him.”

  “He’ll bring them to our door. And it’s believed they’re Turks, not Afghans.”

  “That article was a couple weeks ago,” Knox said, suddenly interested in the contents of the more current newspaper.

  “Bottom of page six.”

  Knox locates the article. Three inches alongside a two-column ad for couples performance videos. He knows that Dulwich is monitoring the telltale vein in his forehead. He attempts a Zen technique to control his heart rate. But it’s like trying to hold back a barn-sour nag.

  “A car bomb,” Knox says. “A choke point.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Killed the driver and passenger.”

  “A low-level EU bureaucrat who was sadly so insignificant they had to work the obit to make him appear otherwise.”

  The paper’s placement of the article—buried deeply—speaks to Knox: the man’s death was insignificant as well.

  “It’s better than sex, isn’t it?”

  Knox says, “You’re treading on the sacrosanct.”

  “This EU guy is so far down the ladder, he’s holding it for others. So why kill him?”

  “Why are you screwing around with me? If you want me for this—and we wouldn’t be here if you didn’t—offer me the job and be done with it. I can tell you why: you think you’re on such thin ice that you have to let me sell myself. You condense this down to a couple of lines and you know I won’t be interested.”

  “But you are interested. They killed the bureaucrat because he was a source for the article. They’re trying to kill the truth.”

  “Spare me!” But there are style points to be awarded here. Dulwich is beating a drum and making it louder with every hit. He has it all choreographed. He assumed it would be a tough sell. Knox wants to make sure to see it from both sides before feeling the trap door give way. Graham Winston. A knot shop. Some low-level bureaucrat reduced to toast.

  Knox still can’t see it perfectly. He’s pissed at himself.

  “Why would Brian Primer,” he says, mentioning Dulwich’s boss, president of the Rutherford Risk security firm, “accept a job to shut down a sweatshop ring? It sounds more like something for a police task force.”

  “Because he has a paying client.”

  “Brian has plenty of paying clients.”

  “Because these guys are scum holes. They kidnap ten-year-olds and chain them to posts and make them work eighteen-hour days. You know the drill. It’s repugnant.”

  Knox needs no reminder why the op appeals to him—Dulwich had him at ten-year-olds in chains; he’s less sure about Rutherford Risk’s motivations. No matter how Dulwich pumps him up, he has always assumed he is expendable to these people. Rutherford’s clients pay well for a reason: the work is typically unwanted by, or too dangerous for, others.

  “I’m appealing to your savior complex,” Dulwich says, being honest for a change.

  “The girl.”

  “The girls. And you need the money.”

  Knox is in financial quicksand. A $300,000 nest egg to provide for his brother’s exceptional medical needs was embezzled by a woman who took advantage of his brother’s diminished abilities. Without that nest egg, should anything happen to Knox, his brother, Tommy, will be institutionalized. The irony Dulwich forces upon Knox each time he makes an offer is that Knox must risk his own safety to win the money to provide for his brother in case he’s not around.

  Dulwich reaches down and comes out with another newspaper that contains the original article about the young, injured girl fleeing the health clinic.

  “I did read this,” Knox says, remembering. The byline is Sonia Pangarkar. It’s as much a story about the poorer neighborhoods of Amsterdam and the European struggle with immigrants as it is a cry for this runaway girl’s life. The reporter is smart, thorough, and the piece engaging. There are names and places to back it up.

  One of the names jumps out at him. “The car-bombing victim was one of her sources,” Knox says. “We discussed it already. So, it’s hardball.”

  “Bingo.”

  “In addition to wanting to protect those who cannot protect themselves, the benevolent Mr. Winston draws a line at murdering those willing to whistle-blow,” Knox says. “I’m touched.”

  “Winston stands for liberty and justice for all. Terry Gross. Rachel Maddow. Anyone who will listen.”

  “Graham Winston is intending to run for prime minister.”

  “You said that. I did not.”

  Knox sets down the paper. “I’m not a political consultant.” Hard-to-get is the only play with Dulwich. It’s time to negotiate.

  Knox downs the rest of the coffee. It’s like swallowing a six-volt battery. “I’ve got Tommy to think of. The Turkish mob is not going to like being exposed. Just ask your low-level bureaucrat.”

  “Winston will pay four times the last job.”

  The number 200,000 swims in Knox’s head. It’s a lot of thimble cymbals.

  Knox signals the waiter and orders another shot of espresso, wanting to ramp it up to twelve volts. Dulwich does the same. The curious woman stands up to leave. Knox senses a missed opportunity. “I’ll need Grace.”

  “Done.”

  “Resources.”

  “It’s Graham Winston, Knox.”

  “A reliable contact in the police department would help.” He wants the young girl recovered safely. All the girls recovered safely. He resents that Dulwich knows this about him.

  “Know just the guy. Name of Joshua Brower. We go way back.”

  “I’ve got to believe that someone in power is looking the other way on this thing. Right? So the police piece is a tricky one.”

  “Brower’s trustworthy. I’m with you.”

  “You wouldn’t be leaving something out?”

  “That’s not in anybody’s best interest.”

  “Listen, we both know, given the choice of losing me or Grace, Brian Primer’s going to protect Grace.”

  Dulwich is silent.

  Knox decides not to push. He suspects Grace Chu’s star has risen within Rutherford Risk. First and foremost a forensic accountant, she has recently proven herself a quick study of computer hacking and, because of her former training with the Chinese Army, is no slouch in field ops. Knox knows he’s not in the same category––he offers Primer and Dulwich his cover of a legitimate international exporter and a growing passion for stomping the ugliest bugs that crawl out of the dark.

  There’s sand in Knox’s teeth. Or maybe it’s coffee grounds. He can’t afford to get himself hurt or killed with Tommy’s ongoing medical care unfunded. The money being offered would help him to eventually cover his brother’s long-term home care. He bridles at the thought of an institution.

  He’s pissed as he accepts the job.

  In another life, Grace would’ve been a witch doctor. A digital witch doctor. She balances between several worlds: her father’s traditionalist Chinese versus the reality that is Shanghai, Beijing, Chengdu and the other major cities joining the Western world; a love life that has lost its way; a woman in an overwhelmingly male-dominated world of private security; numbers on a page versus numbers in the cl
oud.

  As her fingers hit the keypad, all that changes: she’s transported into a digital realm that both absorbs her and fascinates her. She is in control, despite the vodka. Her eyes stray over to Mr. Smear-n-Off—the digital gates open before her like she’s marching on Troy. She’s through three barriers and onto the corporate network, marching with her army of education, training and experience and pushing her horse through with its belly full of surprises.

  The investment firm has thousands of clients—tens of thousands—and she’s trying to find just one. No name. No account number. She’s exhilarated. Electric. Part of it is the voyeurism. Part of it, the excitement of exploration. Part of it, superiority. All she has is a number and a date, and the chances are the number has been broken into smaller numbers. But that’s part of the fun. So it’s down to the date in sorting through hundreds of deposits, knowing the mistake that’s always made is the cents. She’s hunting for fifty-four cents. Over three hundred thousand dollars stolen and she’s going to find it with just fifty-four cents.

  With any luck, that will just be the start of this. She suspects the three hundred thousand may be only the tip of the iceberg.

  Mr. Smear-n-Off moans and rolls over but isn’t even close to REM—he’s not coming around anytime soon. Her eyes are to the right of the decimal point, the numbers scrolling in what to others would appear a blur, and there it is like a flag waving: FIFTY-FOUR CENTS. Her index finger skids the scroll to a stop. She has to back up a page to find the actual entry, but it’s there. A date that makes sense. The alcohol helps her to make a joke just for herself. It makes cents. She chuckles. She captures a screenshot almost automatically, saves it to the external drive and deletes it from the laptop. As a hunter she has raised her bow, but is far from firing. This smells of the game she pursues, but only time will tell. And the amount is small: forty-seven thousand, two hundred, eighty-three and fifty-four cents, leaving much more to find. Possibly much, much more.

  The LED on the external drive stops flashing, the cloning complete. She’s all efficiency of motion as she packs up, wipes down the desk and laptop and makes for the door. She can almost move herself to feel sorry for Mr. Smear-n-Off.

  Almost.

  The air in the room hangs heavy, snowflakes of wool lint mixed with tobacco smoke swirling beneath the rows of arched skylights. An occasional deep-chested cough interrupts the quiet. Four girls to a rug, sometimes six. Ten to twelve rugs. Feet tucked under the girls’ bottoms to ward off the cool concrete floor. Maja, a “local,” ties at station three with two “residents.”

  It is a joyless space. A place of deep concentration—mistakes are not tolerated. Furtive looks are exchanged between the girls; they share a language of minute gestures, undetected by the watchers. These messages and warnings travel from station to station as the girls attempt to protect one another. A team of nameless strangers, yet some have known each other for years. Some go back only a few months. Five of the girls arrived less than two weeks ago.

  A warning flashes across the room, carried by a dozen hands.

  “Inspection!” a watcher cries out sharply.

  The shop is a place of routine and schedule. Most of all, it is a secret place. No one leaves—not even the watchers—once the door is closed and locked. The sound of the door coming open means only one thing: Him.

  The girls continue their work, shoulders hunched with dread and anticipation.

  More frightening than the dog is the man who leashes him. The leader. His face looks like it’s been through a shredder. But it is his deliberateness that terrifies Maja. His calm covers a churning machine inside. He may not exactly enjoy punishing the girls, but he has no problem doing so. He makes the watchers look like nannies.

  The clicking of the dog’s nails on the concrete and the animal’s rapid panting send chills up her spine. The inspections are like Russian roulette. Sometimes the girls pass muster, sometimes not.

  The leader’s running shoes squeak as they flex. The timing of the inspections, every two to three weeks, is unpredictable. What the leader is searching for remains unclear. Electronics? Forbidden. A camera? Forbidden. Candy? Gum? Forbidden.

  The minutes stretch out interminably. Maja is restless. She works furiously at her rug. Even from a distance, she can hear a watcher take a drag on his cigarette and exhale. She hears a gob of dog drool splash on the floor next to her. She does not pause.

  The beast is upon her, its nose active. The dog snorts and huffs as it circles her head, her back and pauses at her bottom. Despite her being fully clothed, she’s embarrassed. The animal works around to her crossed legs and stuffs its nose into her crotch. Still, she cranes forward, continuing to tie.

  The dull rattle of its choke collar signals that this time she has passed. The dog is led to the girl to Maja’s left. The process begins again.

  The dog growls roughly.

  Why? Maja wonders.

  “No, no! Please!” the girl cries. The leader coils the girl’s hair around his hand and lifts her straight off the floor. Maja doesn’t even know the girl’s name.

  “Too slow!” the leader calls out.

  But she is one of the most efficient of them all. Surely one of the watchers will defend her! But nothing is said.

  Maja’s partner hangs by her hair, tears streaming down her cheeks. The girl bites down on her knuckles, not daring to scream. It would only get worse for her. They would beat the soles of her feet with the sock—a knot of rocks tied into the toe of a white Reebok athletic sock.

  “You dare look at me like that?” the leader spits at the crying girl. “This one!” he tells the nearby watcher. The leader passes the girl by the hair. The watcher lets her settle to the floor and drags her off.

  “Faster!” the leader shouts.

  All heads are trained down. All hands are busy.

  Ten minutes later there’s a ruckus at station nine. “Sloppy!” the leader says in Dutch.

  This girl cries out and is slapped repeatedly. She settles into a blubbering sob.

  Maja knows better than to look. A moment later, the leader leaves. Two girls are gone, never to return. Taken to where, Maja doesn’t know.

  Her fingers twist the length of red yarn. Grab, tuck and pull tight. If they see her tears, she’s in trouble.

  Sonia Pangarkar’s newspaper article haunts him as he makes the call to his brother. The reporter was interviewing doctors at a local clinic about the cost of immigrant health care when an emaciated, unkempt girl arrived at the desk, feverish from a festering ankle wound. The writing is excellent—too good for Knox; too many well-crafted images left swimming in his head. Now he wishes he hadn’t read it. They had to include a photo because what would the article be without some nausea to go along with it? A girl of nine or ten, her face all bone and eyes. Pleading. Helpless. These children are used for their small fingers. Their knots can be tied tighter and more quickly. It’s efficiency, at any price. But now it’s their turn to pay the price, whoever’s behind this. Dulwich has his mission; Knox has his own.

  Before calling Tommy, Knox tries to settle himself. His brother knows him way too well, and in an uncanny, telekinetic way, his condition—whatever name they’re putting on it this week—allows him nearly insight to where he can penetrate Knox even over a phone line, discerning his mood or state of mind. Knox will use the new job offer as an excuse to delay his scheduled visit; it’s not the first delay, nor likely the last, and he doesn’t want Tommy seeing through to the truth—whatever that truth may be; it continues to elude him. Knox has been focused on Tommy’s financial health for so long that he’s beginning to see himself as avoiding the realities of his brother’s physical and emotional health.

  “Hey.”

  “There you are!” Tommy comes in two flavors: apathetic and charged. It’s the latter today, which is easier for Knox. When apathetic, Tommy is unreachable.

  “How are things?”

  “You know.” Tommy feels responsible for the embezzlement of over
three hundred thousand dollars by their company’s former bookkeeper, Evelyn, a woman Tommy became infatuated with. No matter how many times Knox explains Evelyn fooled them both, Tommy can’t forgive himself. Part of the guilt revolves around Tommy’s crush, allowing her to manipulate him. Knox has plans for Evelyn when he finds her, and he will find her.

  “I’m taking a job with Sarge. I don’t know for how long, but it will pay well.”

  “How’d the buying go?”

  Knox isn’t sure he’s heard him. Tommy can be funny that way. “Good. You got my e-mails?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you know it went well.” There are those who treat Tommy like a ten-year-old. Not his brother.

  “You shipped to the warehouse.”

  “Correct.” They’re getting somewhere; Tommy is staying on top.

  “We can put the new stuff online as soon as they’re inventoried.” There’s pride in his voice now, making Knox happy.

  “Yes. That’s right. You can take care of the inventory?”

  “No problem.”

  That a boy. “You heard what I said about Sarge?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It doesn’t mean you can’t call me.”

  “I know.”

  “I want you to call me.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Seriously.”

  “But not too serious.”

  Knox can’t wipe the smile off his face as he answers. “You got that right.”

  “What kind of job? With Sarge?”

  “Just a thing.”

  Much as he knows he needs to keep the lines of communication open, Tommy is a liability. Someone might try to track down Tommy to get to Knox. Ignorance is bliss. People who run sweatshops are not to be messed with. The kind of person who chains a ten-year-old to a worktable thinks nothing of taking out a thirty-something Curious George. He and Dulwich rarely discuss the risks. The pay grade reflects them up front. None of that does Tommy much good if Knox doesn’t come home. Knox is wearing a bull’s-eye on his back before he ever leaves for Amsterdam.