“But that’s exactly what I did. I left them alone. And they died. At least, I thought they died, and it’s been killing me slowly ever since.”
I stood there, letting her cry. Then I stooped and scooped her up into my arms and carried her into the bedroom. I laid her down on the bed, pulled her close. I waited until her sobbing had quieted before whispering into her ear, “You did the right thing. The smartest thing you could have done that night was to send the strongest swimmer off alone. It was the only way to be sure there’d be at least one person to tell searchers what happened and to keep looking. Without knowing it, you did the very best thing possible for the other three.”
That surprised her. I could tell. “I… I never thought of it that way. Do… do you really mean it, Doc?”
Maybe I did. It really might have been the smartest thing to do. In light of what happened, it probably was. But I said, “Of course I mean it. If you feel guilty, you’re wasting your time. You gave them their very best chance of being found. It didn’t happen, but that’s not your fault.”
I felt her hand on the back of my neck, and she hugged me close. “You’re still a terrible liar, and I love you for it. At least now you understand why I have to go with you.”
I said, “Do I?”
For the next ten minutes, we argued back and forth. I despised the idea of her going. But she kept pressing, saying she had no choice, her conscience demanded that she make the trip. Her argument had the articulate professionalism associated with her craft, plus passion-so much passion that, ultimately, I withdrew and listened to her without responding until she paused, and said, “Doc? Hey… what’s wrong? You look almost… almost on the verge of tears or something. I’ve never seen you so emotional.”
“I’m not emotional,” I snapped. “I’m concerned. I’ve had very bad luck taking friends to dangerous places. Please don’t ask me to go into detail, but it’s something I just won’t do. I can’t take you. I absolutely refuse to risk it again.”
Lying there, she pushed herself away from me, framed my face with her palms, forcing me to look into her eyes. “I’m not asking you to take me to Colombia. I’m asking you to let me live my life as an adult.” She tapped a finger to the side of her head. “Since the night I left them, I’ve been trapped in here, trapped by my own guilt. I’m sick of it. It’s destroying me, so I have to go. I have no choice.. . and neither do you.”
I was shaking my head-it was impossible to argue with her. “Okay, okay, okay. I don’t like it, but okay.”
Now she hugged me close. “It’s settled then.”
“Not until you agree to one thing. When we’re there, you have to promise to do what I tell you to do. No matter what. I’ve spent a lot of time in places… in places like Colombia. Americans, people in this country, most of them don’t realize how dangerous it can be once they cross the boundaries. I do know. So you need to trust my judgment without question.”
Amelia whispered, “Deal,” then touched her lips to mine. We lay there holding each other, kissing, and touching for what seemed a long time before my hands were on her blouse, fumbling with buttons, and her fingers were searching for me.
So now we were six miles high, sitting deep in leather seats, flying first class, the Caribbean Sea a canyon of blue beneath us.
Our relationship had changed irreversibly that early Saturday morning. We confirmed the change several more times throughout the day.
She was a healthy woman in her early thirties, and all that that implied. Sometimes the bodies of unfamiliar lovers simply do not fit. No explaining it, but it’s true.
Our bodies did fit. They fit comfortably, passionately, and athletically. Amelia had that rare ability to abandon all inhibitions in sex while retaining her sensitivity to her partner’s needs, as well as her sense of humor. Being in bed with her was fun and funny yet satisfying on a level of intimacy that I’d seldom experienced. Maybe never experienced before in my life.
Once, she whispered into my ear, “I feel like I’ve been waiting for you for a long, long time.”
I was surprised to hear myself whisper in reply, “That’s nice. I mean it. Very nice.”
Why would I encourage such feelings? Ask Tomlinson, ask anyone at the marina, I’m the cold one, the one who believes that emotion is a waste of energy. But it really was the way I felt.
Overtly, she gave no sign that we were anything more than friends. I liked that. No public touching or hanging-on; no holding hands or nuzzling. I liked that, too. Outwardly, we were two individuals. Inwardly, though, we were already joined in some indefinable way, and I found that surprising as well.
I liked her. I trusted her. More important, I already felt totally comfortable with her. I hadn’t told her about the satellite photos-that, I could never do. But I had shared with her my theories about what might have happened to Janet, Grace, and Michael if they’d been picked up. That included letting her read the State Department document that Dalton Dorsey had faxed to me.
Some of the data therein were as discomforting; some, I found fascinating. Why hadn’t I heard the data before? The data read in part: ECONOMICS OF THE INTERNATIONAL FLESH TRADE According to [AGENCY DELETED] the global trade in the smuggling of humans is a $12 billion a year business, and the third largest source of profit for organized crime, including international terrorists. The flesh trade is surpassed only by drugs and the illegal arms trade in estimated annual earnings. It has become a favorite investment of criminals and international terrorists because the profits are high, the risk of being caught low, and the punishments much less severe than some crimes that are not nearly as profitable. The discovery of fifty-eight Fijians in the back of a refrigeration truck in Dover, England, all dead of suffocation, focused international attention on this brutal business. And, in late 1999, U.S. Immigration officers arrested Algerian terrorist Ahmed Ressam when he tried to enter the United States with a trunk full of explosives. He had been smuggled into Canada where he applied for refugee status, and his financial backing has been linked to cocaine and a white slavery operation in South America and Brunei. It is estimated that, each year, hundreds of thousands of illegals-many from China, North Africa, and the Middle East-pay up to $50,000 US per person to “Snakeheads.” A Snakehead is often a Chinese-American or an Arab-American stationed in New York City or Bangkok. A Snakehead provides illegals with false identities and passports and transports them inside the twelve-mile limit that marks the end of international waters and the beginning of the United States’s territorial sovereignty.
Like me, Amelia found the statistics very surprising. “I didn’t know it was such a big business,” she said.
The paper also touched on another form of the flesh trade that was even more astonishing. We both read: Another very different, but related, type of business that deals in the buying and selling of humans is what is known, generically, as the white slave trade. The term white slave trade has been passed down from a previous century, and it accurately describes what was then a booming illegal business: the kidnapping and transport of Caucasian women to foreign soil, where they were then sold to wealthy buyers. Over the last two decades, this business has grown faster than both trade in drugs and weapons, though Caucasian women are no longer the only acceptable form of human currency. Any woman who is young and attractive is a very valuable commodity. The United Nations estimates that 4 million women throughout the world are trafficked each year-forced through lies and coercion to work against their will in many types of servitude, particularly as sexual slaves. The International Organization for Migration has said that as many as 500,000 women from the former Soviet Union are annually trafficked into Western Europe alone, and then onto other foreign lands-most often North Africa, Brunei, and the Middle East. Because some of the women have already immigrated illegally, and because some percentage of the women choose to work as prostitutes, statistics are difficult to assess.