“An absolute debacle,” she agreed cheerfully. “The State Department’s worst-case scenario.”
“I seem to recall that this administration included human rights in its election manifesto.”
“Maybe so. But now it’s trade first, human rights last. And China just happens to be the world’s largest untapped market.”
Marcus confessed, “I’m surprised at your candor.”
“Oh, we’re definitely pro-trade around here.” She flashed a quick smile. “But that doesn’t make us blind to reality.”
“Which is?”
“That China has been backsliding on human rights ever since Tiananmen Square. They make no bones about it. The recent arrests of those pro-democracy advocates were highly publicized, both inside and outside China. This was a calculated act. They’re telling the rest of the world this is an internal matter, and we’re too big and too powerful for you to risk offending us. So don’t make an issue of it, or we’ll take our business elsewhere.”
She offered another quick smile. “That’s my ten-cent tour. We dish it up to everybody wanting to tap the Chinese market. Your average American businessman will waltz in here and give us something like, there’s a billion people over there and not a single company making widgets. So we go, fine, but are you willing to get your hands dirty? Because nobody who does business in China stays totally clean.”
He was listening to what was going on beneath the surface now, and thought he heard a confusing note of concern. “Did you know Gloria Hall?”
“Just by name. We never met. She was making a reputation for herself as more than just another noisy activist.”
He leaned forward. “How?”
“These are all just rumors. But you hear things in this business. She was mentioned in a couple of legal suits against Chinese companies, claiming this and that. Usually something labor related. Then there was some Hong Kong issue, a man who’d been injured in a raid, I think it was. And she petitioned my boss on several U.S. companies operating in Tibet.”
Marcus mulled it over. “A troublemaker.”
“You didn’t hear that from me. But that was the word in the corridors.” Another smile, this one tinged with regret. “One of the bad guys.”
Marcus began thinking out loud. “So if Gloria Hall did indeed go to China, and if she was investigating a factory for labor violations and disappeared …”
The smile vanished. “I’d say she was in serious trouble. And you don’t know how serious trouble can be until you hit it in a place like China.”
Though situated less than two miles from the White House, the offices for Asia Rights Watch were on the wrong end of Pennsylvania Avenue. In all his seven years of high-powered travel, Marcus had never had a reason to visit this area. His taxi passed the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, skirted the Tidal Basin, and entered the area known simply as Southwest.
The taxi let him off in front of a new four-story structure of colonial brick. There was no sign outside the building, no indication within of who occupied the top three floors. The lobby was carpeted and sterile and quiet as a tomb. Both the entrance and the elevators were flanked by security cameras.
Marcus exited the elevator on the fourth floor and found himself standing before double doors of reinforced steel. The hallway was compressed by a fireproofed ceiling and thick concrete walls, and was so quiet the air-conditioning shouted a constant hoarse sigh.
He pressed a button alongside the doors. A solemn voice said, “State your business.”
“Marcus Glenwood. I have an appointment.”
“Look straight at the camera. No, the other one, to your right. Thank you.”
The door clicked open. He entered a windowless reception area. Still he saw no sign announcing where he was. The desk and chairs were of light Scandinavian design, the floors and walls a uniform white. The standard drop ceiling had been removed, revealing heating ducts and lighting systems and concrete, all painted a light blue.
“Mr. Glenwood?”
“Yes.” He turned and adjusted his gaze downward. “Mr. Gautam, did I say that correctly?”
“Indeed, yes.” The man did not offer his hand. Instead, he beamed broadly enough to reveal more teeth than Marcus would have thought could fit in such an undersized head. He waved down the side corridor. “Let us go and speak in my office.”
In the privacy of the narrow hallway, Marcus asked, “Why did you take out the ceiling panels?”
“Merely a precaution, Mr. Glenwood. Probably of no benefit.” Dee Gautam had a strong accent with American overtones. The diminutive figure led him into a windowless office as austere as the reception area. “Please to have a seat there.”
“Thanks. Precaution against what?”
“Attacks from above. Some of my colleagues possess a well-developed sense of paranoia.” He gave a merry laugh as he seated himself behind the desk. “Now then. What can I do for you?”
“I mentioned on the telephone that I may be bringing legal action on behalf of a young lady who is missing in China.”
“Indeed yes.” The man was all stick limbs and thinning black hair and skin the color of milky tea. He wore a neatly pressed short-sleeved shirt over dark trousers. “A Miss Gloria Hall.”
“You know her?”
“I can’t recall.” He lifted his hands from his lap and gave a broad shrug. “I meet so many people.”
Marcus’ gaze remained fixed upon where the hands had reached, though they had now retreated back beneath the desk. He was not sure exactly what he had seen, yet it was enough to leave his stomach feeling like jellied ice. “But you might know her.”
“I seem to recall a nice young woman who had an interest in China. I have an interest. We met. We talked. Perhaps. Or it might have been someone else.”
“Can you recall what you might have talked about?”
The man laughed once more, a jarring sound in this sterile womb. “If we did meet, we probably spoke of lao gai. Yes, most definitely it would be of lao gai. You know of these, sir?”
“No.”
“Lao gai are the invisible prisons. The ones you never hear of. Even among ourselves we never say the name very loud. Oh no. Just whisper.” He leaned across his desk and breathed, “Lao gai.” Then laughed once more.
Marcus affected a smile. But his gaze froze on where Dee Gautam’s hands rested upon the desk. Both his thumbs seemed to have extra joints, ones that pointed the digits in the opposite from normal directions. Then they were folded back again and extended normally. But what left Marcus feeling queasy were the deep holes midway between the man’s wrists and elbows. The scars were well-healed, but still a half inch deep, as though someone had driven spikes through the bones.
“Lao gai are everywhere, sir. Oh yes. All the provinces of China, they need places to store those who become nuisances. You wish to pester the provincial government with requests for political rights or rule of law? Fine. No problem. We invite you to be a guest of the state.”
The arms lifted and opened wide, the broad smile returned. “Welcome to the grand hotel lao gai, you pesky fellow. Perhaps here you can learn proper respect, yes?”
“Yes.” Marcus swallowed on a dry mouth, tried not to track the movement of those two arms. “But I thought Gloria Hall was checking out a factory.”
The arms disappeared into his lap. “She has told you this?”
“Not me. She left a letter with her parents.”
“Which factory, please?”
“I don’t know much about it. Just a number. Factory 101. Somewhere outside Hong Kong.”
“In Guangdong Province. Yes.” The smile was gone, the dark eyes steady, measuring. “What is your interest in this, please?”
“Gloria Hall’s parents have asked me to file suit against the factory’s alleged American partner.” Here in this place, faced with the reality of those vanished hands and all the stains hidden by these whitewashed walls, the statement sounded lame. “To be honest, there’s not much of a case. But if a partnership exists, the Americans might help locate her to avoid adverse publicity.”