A Walk Across the Sun (50 page)

“The easy answer is that it was handed to him. You have to understand geopolitics after the Cold War. When the Soviet Union collapsed, it wasn't just the government that crumbled. The entire communist system fell apart. People were out of work, bored, and desperate. Everybody became an entrepreneur. The people who had control of Russia's natural resources leveraged their connections and became oligarchs of the new world order. The people who once ran the KGB and the Eastern Bloc intelligence services turned their tradecraft and contacts into a new mafia, bigger, more lethal, and more efficient than anything Sicily every produced. If we're right, Klein was high up in East German intelligence. He defected toward the end and came to the United States. His wits and his contacts stayed with him.”

“But from what Andrew told me, he's running an American gang, not an Eastern European gang. This isn't Hamburg or Milan.”

“Your point is intuitive but misguided. As it happens, about half of the girls run by his pimps are imported from Eastern Europe. His contacts are instrumental in the source and transit countries. But the skill set of a spy is versatile, as is the power of his money. He can work in just about any country on the globe. His people don't care about his accent or the color of his skin. They work for him because he pays them.”

“So tell me this. How does he get the girls here? As I understand it, border security went through the roof after 9/11.”

“It did, but the criminals are always finding new ways to work the system. As long as we issue visas to visitors, traffickers will exploit the immigration process. And as long as our borders are open, the coyotes in Mexico and Canada will continue to make illegal crossings. The demand for cheap commercial sex is extremely high in the United States. Market forces will prevail in the long run. The traffickers will innovate and meet the demand.”

“You make it sound like the war is unwinnable.”

“I'm not trying to be pessimistic. The war can be won. But not by putting traffickers in jail. Trafficking will stop when men stop buying women. Until that happens, the best we can do is win one battle at a time.”

Pritchett was an excellent host and kept his guests in the intel loop. He showed them satellite images of the Klein residence and played a computer simulation of the guesthouse that the techs had thrown together using architectural blueprints and a bit of creativity. In addition, he gave Thomas a primer on the equipment the SWAT team would use during the raid.

Although the Bureau had no intelligence about the Kleins' defensive capabilities, they were treating the raid like a hostage rescue operation and had contingencies in place to handle the worst—an organized counterattack with automatic weapons and children being used as shields. They had requisitioned an MD-530 “Little Bird” helicopter from the Tactical Helicopter Unit to deploy the first wave of SWAT commandos. The second wave would drive through the gates in Bison light-armored vehicles. Pritchett confessed that the highly mechanized operation would probably turn out to be overkill, but with children involved, he was unwilling to risk it.

At six o'clock, DeFoe left the command center for a briefing with the SWAT team leader. Thomas shook his hand and wished him luck.

“I wish I could go with you,” he said, and DeFoe smiled.

“You really don't. These people are very ugly and I won't be armed.”

Pritchett cleared his throat, looking at Porter and then at Thomas. “In light of the unique circumstances of this investigation, I'm going to authorize you and Mr. Clarke to visit the scene after the property is secured. You deserve to greet this little girl in person.”

“You're serious?”

Pritchett nodded. “I used to work in the D.C. office, and I know your father. He's a fine judge and a true patriot. I trust you will keep all of this to yourself.”

Thomas nodded, overcome.

“I thought so,” replied the special agent in charge.

Chapter 30

The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman.
—W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE

Atlanta, Georgia

Night fell on the Klein property, and lights appeared in the main house and the guesthouse. The grounds, however, lay in darkness. Sita sat on her bed staring at the wall while a
Seinfeld
rerun droned on in the background. It had been nearly four days since her arrival at the house, and she had spent almost every minute since the photo shoot alone in her room. The only exceptions were bathroom breaks. She hadn't seen Dietrich again. Li was the one who tended to her.

On her second night in the house, she awoke in a cold sweat and found it difficult to breathe. The next morning, when she heard footsteps outside her door, she began to hyperventilate. As the hours and days wore on, she began to experience hallucinations. Her thoughts raced and her heart palpitated at imaginary sounds. She thought again of suicide, but the idea of death only made her more afraid.

By the time Li came for her on Monday evening, she was ready to greet whatever hell Dietrich and the blond-haired woman had planned for her, just to escape the oppression of solitary confinement. Li led her through the wine cellar to the main floor and then up a staircase to a hallway of doors. He opened the first door and ushered her inside.

The room was all dark wood and soft light. A canopy bed stood at the center. There was a couch with a chair off to the side, a bar stocked with liquor, and a floor mirror in front of a curtained window. The blond woman stood in the center of the room, waiting for her. She walked toward Sita and began to speak in a hushed tone.

“Tonight you will meet a man. He will want you to do things for him. You will not question or resist. You will forget about your past. You will become a courtesan. Come. Let me show you something.”

She took Sita by the hand and led her to a set of French doors. Behind the doors was a walk-in closet. The woman switched on a light.

“This is your wardrobe,” she said. “The man may ask you to wear something he likes. You will obey him. You will not resist.”

The woman escorted her to a bathroom with wide mirrors and pewter fixtures. “The man may ask you to bathe with him. You will do what he says. You will not resist.”

They returned to the main room, and the woman delivered her valediction.

“This is your new life. Dietrich paid a great deal of money for you. You will please the men we bring to you, or you will feel pain. The last child who resisted is buried in the garden outside. Do you understand?”

Sita nodded.

“Good. Now Li will see that you are washed and dressed properly.”

The woman left the room, and the Asian returned, holding in his hands one of the most elegant saris Sita had ever seen. He placed the sari and a pair of sparkling gold sandals on a coffee table in front of the couch and then he drew her into the bathroom.

“Soap for hair here,” he said, standing over the bathtub and pointing to a bottle of shampoo. “Soap for skin here. Wash all. I back in ten minute.”

Li was true to his word. Sita had no sooner bathed and wrapped herself in a towel when he returned with an elaborate makeup kit. He styled her hair and painted her face with the skill of a cosmetician. When he finished, he told her to put on the sari and sandals and left the room again. Sita knew the drill from the photo shoot. She wrapped herself in the green and white cloth and thought of the sari Sumeera had given Ahalya to wear on the night she met Shankar. Bombay was half the world away, but so much of this was the same.

The Asian appeared again after a few minutes with a bag of jewelry. He adorned her wrists and ankles with bangles and wrapped a golden choker with an emerald pendant around her neck. Finally he placed a red hibiscus in her hair. Then he stood back and regarded her with satisfaction.

“You ready,” he said. “I back soon.”

He wheeled around and disappeared into the hallway, locking the door behind him.

Sita sat on the edge of the bed. This was the end of the road. She had survived so much, yet she could not escape her karma. On this day she would lose her innocence. In a land ten thousand miles from her birthplace, she would experience
sar dhakna
, the beshya's symbolic veiling of the head.
Is this what it felt like, Ahalya?
she thought.
Is this the despair I saw in your eyes?
She began to weep, and the tears burned her cheeks.

How I wish I could hear your voice again.

At ten thirty, Agent DeFoe left the government-owned warehouse where the SWAT team had been staged, driving a nondescript Ford rental car. He was dressed in an oxford shirt, wool slacks, and tassel loafers, all of which he had purchased from Brooks Brothers the day before. He missed the familiar feeling of his 9mm Glock in his waistband, but he knew they would frisk him at the door. He was equipped with nothing more than his instinct and a miniature audio recorder and GPS transponder buried in his wristwatch.

He arrived at LeRoy's Pit Stop at ten forty-five. The truck stop was seconds from the I-85 exit ramp, and the attached restaurant was abuzz with the late-dinner crowd. DeFoe pressed a button on his watch to activate the recording device and transponder and then walked into the restaurant and asked to use the men's room. A waitress waved him toward a corner in the back.

He scanned the smoke-filled eatery and noticed a thin man with a mustache sitting by himself at a booth along the wall. The man was sipping a beer and watching the door. Their eyes met briefly and then the man looked down at a newspaper in front of him. It was clear to DeFoe that the man was a watcher. He was there to make sure that DeFoe had come alone.

DeFoe used the restroom and washed his hands in the sink. The watcher appeared and used a nearby urinal. DeFoe left the restaurant one minute before ten o'clock. His cell phone rang as soon as he stepped into the parking lot. The caller was a woman. DeFoe walked toward an overflowing dumpster behind the restaurant and listened carefully.

“Mr. Simeon,” the woman began, using his undercover name, “a limousine will pick you up in two minutes. The ride will be short. Our mutual friend is looking forward to seeing you.”

“And I her,” DeFoe replied. “How will final payment be arranged?”

“Once you inspect the merchandise, you can use our computer to wire the funds to the bank account you used for the deposit.”

“Perfect.”

The woman hung up and the limo appeared on schedule. DeFoe got in the back seat and sank into the plush leather. The ride took less than fifteen minutes.

As soon as the limo stopped, the passenger door opened and DeFoe was greeted by a nattily dressed Asian man, standing before the porch of an elegant country home. DeFoe knew from surveillance photographs that this was the Kleins' guesthouse.

“I am Li,” said the Asian. He patted DeFoe down and then motioned toward the door. “This way.”

Li led DeFoe into the foyer and told him to wait. Seconds later, a middle-aged blond woman appeared. She was dressed in a silk pantsuit and pearls, and her hair was pulled back smartly in a ponytail. She exuded competence and control.

“Mr. Simeon, a pleasure to meet you.” She held out her hand and DeFoe took it, surprised by the graciousness in her voice.

“Likewise,” he replied.

“I trust your ride was enjoyable. We spare no expense for our guests.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Please,” she said, ushering him into the living room, “make yourself comfortable.”

DeFoe stood by an antique rocking chair while the woman went upstairs. She returned after a minute with a smile on her face. She took her place beside DeFoe and looked toward the top of the steps.

A moment later a young woman appeared and descended gracefully to the living room. She was dressed like an Indian princess in a lotusprint sari and jewel-encrusted sandals. She wore just enough makeup to accentuate her eyes and enhance her lips and eyelashes. Her necklace and bangles glittered in the light, and the fabric of her sari shimmered when she moved.