A Walk Across the Sun (43 page)

“Yes. I'll let Father Gérard tell you the story.”

They left the car and were greeted on the patio by a man dressed in a cassock. He was balding and bespectacled and had an owl-like face. He kissed Julia's cheeks and shook Thomas's hand. His English was surprisingly good.

“
Bonjour
, welcome,” he said warmly. “I am delighted to meet you.”

“Thank you for agreeing to see us,” Julia replied.

The priest looked at Thomas. “This place is a secret. Yes? The mademoiselle has the proper clearances. You do not. I must have your agreement. You talk of it to no one.”

“You have my word,” Thomas said.

The priest nodded. “In that case, you may come this way.”

Father Gérard led them into a foyer decorated with dark country furniture and out a back door into a garden. The air was warmer than in Paris and sweet with the scent of new grass. They walked down a path to a meadow with a stone fountain at the center. Three young women sat on benches beside the fountain, holding a quiet conversation. One was dressed in the habit of a nun.

“This château was the gift of a tormented man who found peace at the end of his life,” the priest said. “He left it to the Diocese of Quimper, which had no use for it. The bishop had the good sense to ask if any other diocese could think of a Christian purpose for it before putting it up for sale. This was in 1999. At the time, I was working with an NGO in Marseilles. The government was sympathetic to our cause, but the laws were not helpful. Many of the women we rescued were deported and exploited again. I had an idea for a safe house, but we had no money to purchase a property. Then we heard about the château. The bishop welcomed us with open arms. The result is Sanctuaire d'Espoir. You say in English the Sanctuary of Hope.”

They wandered down a path to a fenced-in field. Two quarter horses stood munching on clumps of grass a short distance away. A slight breeze blew from the west and the sea.

“How does the government decide who gets to come here?” Thomas inquired.

“The police send us those in peril. They are usually women who were held by organized crime or whose traffickers have not been caught. We keep them until their case is heard or they return home. The laws are better today. Asylum and permanent residency are options if the women cooperate with the authorities.”

“How are the new girls getting along?” Julia asked.

Father Gérard paused. “All are deeply wounded, but some are stronger than others. One girl is particularly strong. She was the one, I believe, who broke the case for the police.”

Thomas regarded the priest. “When can I speak to them?”

The priest met his gaze. “This is a difficult issue. Most would say that I am a fool to give you access to them so soon. One cannot comprehend the things they have endured. But your desire is to save a life, and that is supreme. I will make the arrangements.”

The priest led them back to the château and into a sprawling sitting room furnished with antiques and baronial family portraits. He motioned for them to take seats. A few minutes later, he returned with one of the most beautiful young women Thomas had ever seen. She was as tall as a runway model and carried herself with the sort of grace that cannot be practiced. Yet her clear blue eyes were wells of sorrow. When she looked at Thomas, he turned away, troubled by her raw vulnerability and the poignancy of her gaze.

She sat across from them on a brocade couch and looked at the priest, as if waiting for a cue. Father Gérard treated her with great gentleness but never touched her or crowded her space. He spoke slowly in English, enunciating his words with careful precision.

“Natalia, I would like to introduce you to Thomas Clarke and Julia Moore.”

The girl nodded.

“Thomas is from the United States, and Julia works at the American embassy in Paris.”

The young woman seemed puzzled by the American connection.

She continued to look at the priest, expecting an explanation.

“Thomas has a few questions he would like to ask you. Do you mind?”

Natalia shook her head. “My English not so good,” she said softly. Her accent was thick. “I try to understand, but I don't know. You speak slow?”

“I will,” Thomas said. He took out the photograph Ahalya had given him and handed it to her. “Have you seen this girl?” He pointed at Sita.

Natalia took the photograph and studied it for a long time. Tears came to her eyes and traced a course down her cheeks. She wiped them away and regarded Thomas with an expression of tenderness.

“Yes,” she said.

Thomas took a sharp breath. “Can you tell me where?”

Natalia stared at the floor. “There was … room,” she began. “He take us there to rape. One day he leave me alone and this girl come. She say …” Natalia stopped in midsentence and began to cry again. “She say she pray for me. I thought she was angel, but she was Sita. She do house chores.” Natalia paused. “I see her again later. She try to run. But she not … escape. Next day she gone.”

“Do you know where she went?” he asked, struggling to contain his emotions.

Natalia shook her head.

“Do you think anyone else spoke to her?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. I ask for you.”

She stood and left the room, returning a few minutes later with another young woman with Slavic features. The priest stood, and Thomas and Julia followed his lead.

“This is Ivanna,” Natalia said. “She not speak English, but she know something.”

Natalia spoke to Ivanna briefly in Russian. Ivanna nodded and replied quietly.

“She say she cook,” Natalia informed them. “Sita help in kitchen.”

The young women exchanged a few more unintelligible words.

“She say Indian couple come to house last week. They talk about travel to America.”

Ivanna's revelation elated Thomas and discouraged him at the same time. Navin's uncle had transported her out of France, and the Petroviches had something to do with it. But the United States? There had to be fifty flights a day from Paris to cities across America. The only real barrier to entry was the border patrol at the airport. After clearing immigration, a person could disappear without a trace.

“Did they say where in the United States they intended to go?” he asked.

Natalia translated the question for Ivanna, and the girl shook her head.

“Nyet.”
It was the first and only word she spoke that Thomas understood.

“I talk to all girls,” Natalia said. “Only Ivanna has information.”

“Thank you,” Thomas said, trying to hide his disappointment. “It's something.”

Natalia looked at him intently, piercing him with her eyes. “You find this girl?”

“I'm doing my best,” he replied.

She reached out and took his hand. “Then we are friends,” she said.
“Da svidaniya.”
With that, she turned and vanished into the foyer.

Thomas's skin tingled with the memory of her touch. How many people had urged the impossible upon him? Ahalya. Priya. Julia. Now Natalia. Did they truly believe he could do it? Or was it just that he was the only one foolish enough to try? Whatever their reasons, he knew now that the task far exceeded his skills. If Paris was a long shot, America was a black hole. To recover Sita, he would need more than hunches and instinct and the help of friends.

He would need an act of God.

Chapter 26

In the abundance of your trade, you were filled with violence in your midst, and you sinned.
—T
HE
B
OOK OF
E
ZEKIEL

Elizabeth, New Jersey

After Sita's escape attempt, Alexi took great pains to ensure that she remained locked in Igor's rape room. Each night after the club closed, he checked on her personally and secured the door when he left. In the late morning, he appeared again and brought her a few morsels of food. He never spoke to her, and she almost never looked at him.

As time passed, darkness closed in on her. She gave up playing her poetry and word games, gave up pretending that Ahalya was beside her, gave up fantasizing about happiness through the portal of memory. She spent most of her time staring at the wall and pondering the inexplicable nature of her karma.

On Sunday evening before the club opened, Alexi came for her. He stood in the doorframe and commanded her with a single word: “Come.”

She stood and followed him into the hallway. He led her through the dressing room—now brightly lit but empty—and into the lounge beyond. A blond-haired man dressed smartly in slacks and a dark blazer sat on one of the lounge chairs, watching a horse race on the television. He nodded to Alexi and motioned for Sita to stand before him. His English was carefully pronounced and lightly accented.

“She is beautiful,” he said, appraising Sita from head to toe with piercing blue eyes. “And very young. I must compliment your brother on the acquisition.”

“Vasily knew you would approve,” Alexi replied.

The man walked around Sita, brushing his fingertips along the nape of her neck. He stopped in front of her and smiled thinly. “The color of her skin is dark enough to be exotic but light enough to be enticing. She will command a high price.”

Sita's stomach churned and she felt faint. These men were speaking about her like an animal at the market.

“I will buy her for twenty thousand,” the man said.

Alexi bristled. “She is worth forty. I will take no less.”

They haggled about the price, and Sita closed her eyes. Another transaction was about to be made. The stranger was the next link in the chain of her destiny.

The bargain was struck at thirty thousand dollars. The blond man made payment with an envelope full of cash and then disappeared through the door to the club.

The next two nights passed in relative calm. Sita heard Igor growling at the girls in the hallway, but he stayed away from the room. Her isolation was broken only by Alexi's brief visits. She began to wonder whether she had misunderstood the transaction in the lounge. Perhaps the blond man had paid Alexi for acquiring her in the first place. But that didn't explain her presence at the club or Alexi's violent reaction to Igor's advances. Igor had said Alexi was saving her for Dietrich. Who in the world was Dietrich?

A preliminary answer to her riddle came on Tuesday in the form of a black man who wore dark sunglasses and a large gold chain around his neck.

“The baby ho go all the way to Harrisburg?” he asked when Alexi opened the door to Sita's room.

“All the way,” Alexi responded. “The others go to Philly.”

“Yeah, for the tech convention. Manuel told me all about it.” He looked crossly at Sita. “You ready, baby ho?”

Sita glanced at Alexi, waiting for a cue.

“You go with Darnell now,” he said.

“That's right,” the man called Darnell confirmed. “And I ain't got time or patience for bitches with attitude.” He opened his coat and showed her the butt of a handgun. “You mess with me, I end you. You understand?”

Sita nodded, trembling. She put on her coat and then Darnell took her by the arm and led her out of the club to a van waiting in the parking lot. Three girls from the club were already seated in the back. A wiry Latino man occupied the passenger seat. He was nose-deep in a magazine and showed no interest in Sita.

She took a seat on the front bench and looked out the window toward the road. It was near midday and traffic was heavy. No one noticed the inconspicuous van or its human cargo. A police car drove by, but it vanished like the rest.

Darnell hopped into the driver's seat and peeled out of the parking lot. The streets of the city were congested, but traffic opened up as soon as they merged onto the turnpike. They drove for ninety minutes without a break. Sita grew thirsty and needed to use the restroom, but she was afraid to ask. The girls in the back didn't speak, and she never looked at them.

Darnell took a bridge into Philadelphia and exited onto Broad Street. He pulled the van up to the sidewalk outside the Marriott Hotel and placed a call on his cell phone. Soon a white man dressed in a pinstripe suit exited the lobby and walked in their direction. He greeted Darnell and looked appreciatively at the girls as they piled out of the van.