Those Who Feel Nothing (25 page)

You say nothing. To be honest, you're not sure what to say. ‘What's your part in it?' you finally say.

‘To make sure nothing goes wrong until we're ready to move.'

You're starting to feel out of your depth. ‘Move on who or what?'

‘The trafficking syndicate, of course.'

‘Which one?' you say.

You hear footsteps and a woman bobs into the cavern. The woman you saw in the Terror Museum. You start to put your hand in your pocket. Goatee man shakes his head.

‘Are you stupid or crazy?' she says to you. English again. ‘Your actions could incline me either way.'

‘What was going on in the street market and the Terror Museum?' you say.

‘What did you think was going on?'

‘Who are you people?'

‘What instructions did Sal Paradise give you?' she says.

‘Who's he?' you say.

‘The guy you're working for. The guy who told us to expect you.'

‘You work for this man Paradise too?'

The woman glances at goatee and gives a taut smile. ‘He works for us, Mr Tingley.'

The fact they know your name plunges you into even more confusion.

‘What the hell is going on?' you say.

O
n the way back to the station, Gilchrist called Donaldson. He was churlish, of course.

‘Any news?' she said.

‘Well, the antiques have gone, I understand. And we're trying to see if that blocked up tunnel leads anywhere.'

‘Antiques gone?' Gilchrist said. ‘I don't get you.'

‘Agent Merivale and his team took them away in a big truck just after you'd gone. He'd mentioned it in our meeting, remember.'

She told Heap what had happened.

‘That was never really our investigation, was it, ma'am?'

‘I suppose not,' she said quietly.

He glanced at her. ‘Do you mind my asking you something?'

‘Of course not,' Gilchrist said.

‘Why didn't Agent Merivale chip in when Windsor was mentioned? Do you think he wasn't aware of him?'

They had stopped at the lights on the seafront near the Palace Pier. Gilchrist kept her face expressionless, especially as she knew Heap was watching her like a hawk. She wasn't sure about this brotherly interest he seemed to be taking in her welfare.

‘Maybe he didn't know or didn't think it important,' she said with a shrug, hoping her confusion didn't show.

Heap had a sympathetic look on his face as the lights changed and he moved on. Gilchrist obviously hadn't done quite as well as she'd hoped on the concealment front.

Back in the office, she called Merivale's mobile. The line was dead. After some detective work she found a number for Homeland Security in the US.

‘I'm trying to get hold of a George Merivale, on secondment to UNESCO from the FBI.'

‘This is the State Department, ma'am. You mentioned two organizations there that might suit you better.'

‘He said he was seconded from Homeland Security – doesn't that have overall responsibility for all the other agencies now?'

‘That is correct. What is this gentleman's particular area of expertise, Detective Inspector?'

‘Cambodian antiquities.'

‘A moment if you please.' It was just a moment. ‘We have no one here by that name working in or contracted to this agency.'

‘If he were doing undercover work you would say that, wouldn't you?'

‘Probably. So, Detective Inspector, if you choose to disbelieve me, that's your privilege. But I can tell you that our interest in Cambodia lies elsewhere.'

‘Where exactly?'

He paused again. She wondered if he was conferring with a colleague.

‘I don't know, ma'am. You mentioned this agent. I'm embarrassed to say that whilst we've been talking I've fed him into our computer – I apologize for my rudeness in not paying total attention to you but we live in the age of multi-tasking. I am that rare man who can do that.'

Gilchrist chuckled. She liked this man.

‘I'm afraid this man might not be all that he seemed,' the American said. ‘His name is not coming up at all. Anywhere.'

‘Meaning?' Gilchrist said, not feeling quite so much like chuckling now.

‘Meaning,' he said slowly, ‘that if we're the good guys … he probably isn't.'

Gilchrist was silent for a long moment. ‘Don't shoot the messenger, ma'am.'

‘It's not you I'm thinking of shooting,' she said. ‘It's me. How could I be so stupid?'

‘Might I ask if you gave him these Cambodian artefacts?'

Gilchrist laughed again, more harshly than before. ‘I did assign the artefacts to his care, yes.' Thinking: but I assigned more than that.

Maybe the man on the other end of the line heard her thoughts. He softened. ‘How long have you been in law enforcement, ma'am, if I may ask?'

‘Coming up to eight years.'

‘A good time, but I'm approaching my thirtieth year.'

‘So you have words of wisdom for me?' Gilchrist said.

His laugh was guttural. ‘I had wisdom about twenty years ago – I thought. Maybe when I was your age. But I quickly realized as I got older that I knew less and less. Maybe
you
could give me more definite words of wisdom.'

Gilchrist's laugh was quieter. ‘The mantra that is going round here at the moment is: the world belongs to those who feel nothing.'

Another pause. Maybe it was the international phone line – but weren't delays a thing of the past in this digital age?

‘If I may say so, that is not an entirely cheerful piece of wisdom,' he finally said. ‘I have to believe that people are generally like you and me, ma'am, with morals and integrity and basic human decency.' He paused. ‘All the evidence notwithstanding.'

‘You're not looking on the bright side,' Gilchrist said.

His deep laugh again. ‘Which in this instance is?'

Gilchrist laughed. ‘I have absolutely no idea,' she said. But to herself: but this conversation has helped me get perspective on the bastard.

The situation in the subterranean caverns below Buda castle with the goatee beard and the woman reminds you of a time in a basement wine bar on London's Embankment and a conversation with people in the same line of work.

You had been there in the days of acceptable cigarette use, when the smoke billowing round the room had made the dark so Stygian the candlelight – the only light – could scarcely penetrate. Decades of smokers in the groined alcoves had left a black cake on walls and ceilings you could almost peel off with your fingernails, if you were so inclined.

That dim light and atmosphere was appropriate enough when you were being recruited into the smoke and mirrors world of the intelligence services. Well, recruited was maybe too strong a term. They wanted to use you now and then on specific projects.

The couple in the catacombs beneath Buda castle are called Sebastian and Phyllida. You think these are probably their real names.

‘We know you, Jimmy,' Sebastian says. ‘Probably better than you know yourself.'

That's for sure, you think but don't say.

‘We've had you checked out back in London,' Phyllida says. ‘We're guessing Sal didn't realize he had a tiger by the tail.' She leans forward. ‘He still doesn't.'

‘Sal Paradise works for you?' you say.

‘We use him, yes.'

‘I wouldn't have thought he'd be the sort to collude with spooks.'

‘Well, Sal is always about the bottom line,' Phyllida says. ‘When his business is under threat then he's happy to collaborate.'

‘And this man he's sent me after is a threat?'

‘It's complicated,' Sebastian says, wrinkling his nose as he tastes the wine from the fountain. He puts his glass down on the tufa floor.

‘My brain still functions pretty well,' you say.

Phyllida snorts. ‘You're going to have to convince me of that,' she says.

‘This guy is ripping him off selling on Asian artefacts,' you say. ‘I have no idea how that links with the person and paper trail that I was following.' You look at Phyllida. ‘But you picked up that book in the museum. You know what it is all about.'

‘You followed a man called Slavitsky from the flea market,' she said. ‘Your taxi driver is doing fine, by the way. And we secured his taxi-cab so he doesn't lose his pathetic livelihood.'

You shrug. ‘I couldn't afford to lose this guy Slavitsky, who I know as Harry Nesbo. Plus the driver pissed me off.'

‘We noticed,' Phyllida says drily.

‘Slavitsky had a list in the book he was carrying,' Sebastian says.

‘The book you took,' you say to Phyllida.

‘The book it was my mission to take,' she says. She gestured at Sebastian. ‘We are part of the set-up.'

‘So are there antiques at that flea market more valuable than they look, or is there some stuff hidden away in a basement there?'

‘No basement,' Sebastian says. ‘No antiques.'

You look from one to the other.

‘People,' Phyllida says quietly.

Sebastian gives his goatee a little tug and leans forward. ‘This isn't about antiquities or looting ancient sites.'

You sit back. ‘It isn't?'

Sebastian shakes his head.

‘This is about smuggling people on a massive scale.'

‘Human trafficking is a huge problem,' Phyllida says. ‘It took off in the early years of this century when the Soviet Union opened up and the Balkan conflict ended. But now it has broadened.'

‘Cambodia has been on various watch lists since 2007 because it doesn't do enough to combat trafficking of adults,' Sebastian says. ‘It has a National Anti-Human Trafficking Day but it's mostly for show. About ten years ago the deputy director of the police department charged with stopping trafficking and protecting juveniles was jailed with some of his colleagues for complicity in the trafficking.'

‘And Paradise is implicated,' you say.

‘Indubitably. We're pretty certain those indicted were on Paradise's payroll but we couldn't prove anything against him – he uses too many cut-outs.'

‘There are big fines and long jail sentences for people caught trafficking anyone, but it still goes on,' Phyllida says. ‘First, like every other Asian country, it traffics children from rural areas to cities. But what makes Cambodia special – in a horrible way – is that as well as being a key destination for sex tourists it is also a key transit point. If you know your history you'll know about the old Silk Routes. Sadly, we now live in an age of Slave Routes.'

‘Sal told me he's involved in trafficking, but only within Cambodia,' you say. ‘He claims to have some moral compunction about trafficking people across Cambodia's borders.'

You'd thought it was because he liked to be kingpin in Cambodia and knew he'd be mixing it with some big boys anywhere else. You've mixed it with some pretty nasty Balkan gangsters in your time and know what they are capable of.

Phyllida gives you a sour look. ‘You believe him?'

‘He said he focuses on slave labour. He traffics men for work in agriculture, fishing and construction. His women aren't usually sexually exploited – he puts them to work as domestic slaves or in factories.'

‘And children?' Sebastian says.

‘Some kids he uses in organized begging rings and for street-selling,' you say. ‘Drug mules too.' You spread your hands. ‘Look, I know he's involved in prostitution but most of that in Cambodia is operated by Vietnamese pimps. They bring in their own, more or less willing, Vietnamese girls.'

‘You're forgetting the people forced into it from other ethnic groups,' Phyllida says. ‘The sex slaves don't get paid. They scarcely get fed. They're prisoners with armed criminals as warders.'

‘You're saying that's Paradise?' you say.

‘You know what the third most profitable criminal activity in the world is?' Sebastian says.

You smile. You think. It could be a snarl for all you know.

‘No disrespect, guys, but I don't have time for a quiz.'

‘Child prostitution,' Sebastian continues. ‘Worth twelve billion dollars a year. And Cambodia is at the heart of it. In Cambodia itself there are about five thousand child prostitutes for the sex tourists – you know, those men who take in a bit of culture between exploiting underage girls and boys.'

‘The depressing thing is that everybody is in on it,' Phyllida says. ‘Not just crime syndicates but parents, relatives and neighbours.'

‘Parents?' you murmur.

‘When you're starving, your children become a commodity,' she explains. ‘It's always been like that. It's the same situation in parts of India, say, or even Mexico. Most Cambodians earn less than fifty cents a day. When you are just about surviving on subsistence rates, selling your five-year-old makes economic sense.'

Sebastian leans forward. ‘I know of one Cambodian couple who delivered their ten-year-old and twelve-year-old to some German creep's hotel room to do with them whatever he wanted. He paid them a pittance but they took it.'

You sit back and swirl your drink around in your glass.

‘That's unusual though,' Phyllida says. ‘Normally, virgin children are auctioned. High-ranking military, police, government officials and businessmen take part in the auctions. The highest bidder gets to deflower them and afterwards the kids are put to regular sex work.'

‘And Sal Paradise is implicated in this,' you say tonelessly.

‘Paradise owns a village a few miles outside Phnom Penh that is pretty much all brothels,' Sebastian says. ‘There are about fifty of them. You can buy five-year-olds for sex there. And every night dozens of westerners go out there and do just that.'

‘The children are starved and beaten,' Phyllida says. ‘They live in cages and are brought out just for sex. Drugs keep them pliant.'