Читать книгу The Hunted - Rachel Lee - Страница 12

Jerrod and Erin left the hotel before the eastern sky began to brighten. At a gas station, Jerrod bought them large coffees in metal travel mugs and breakfast tacos he’d heated in a microwave.

“Sorry it’s not a better meal,” he said as they pulled away. “We’ll get something farther down the road.”

“It’s amazing what we’ll accept as food,” Erin said with a sleepy laugh. “I wonder if there’s anything organic in these things?”

“Probably not,” he said, chuckling. “But at least they’re calories.”

She nodded as she chewed and swallowed. “And they aren’t the most horrible thing I’ve ever tasted.”

He laughed as he ate. “No. If I close my eyes and let myself imagine, I can almost believe they’re fit for human consumption.”

She laughed with him, trying to cling to the humor of the moment, knowing it couldn’t last. It didn’t.

“I’m going to keep to the back roads for a while,” Jerrod said. “I’ll make sure we don’t have a tail.”

Erin’s neck prickled. “What if we do?”

“I’ll drive off that bridge when we get to it.”

It was an odd kind of confidence, she thought. They had only the barest notion of a plan and no real idea what might happen, yet he seemed comfortable with that, as if the uncertainty itself were a security blanket. Then again, given what he’d told her—and what he hadn’t—he likely had a lot of skills that she didn’t necessarily want to think about.

Some of the prettiest countryside in Texas slid by, invisible in the predawn darkness. There were no headlights to be seen, and rarely a streetlight. They could have been driving through grass-scented ink, with only the thrum of the tires and the occasional chuckhole to pull them back to reality.

They rode silently, sipping coffee. Just as trees were beginning to emerge from the darkness, Jerrod spoke.

“I’ll have to stop by my office and do some things, but I’m going to leave you somewhere while I do.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s in the Houston police reports that I found you. And someone may also have reported that I took you away from the apartment. Point is, it’s no secret we met. So I don’t want anyone to know you’re still with me.”

“You think they’d be watching that closely?”

He glanced over at her before returning his attention to the road. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think. I’m not used to being paranoid.”

“Like I said, you’re the only link they have to your source. They want to know who you’re talking to. Then they want you both dead.”

“Thanks for the message of cheer,” she said. “So they think I’m going to lead them to this guy?”

“That’s what they’re hoping. They’re hoping we’ll do exactly what we’re going to do. Find the source. So we have to do that without them knowing we’ve done it.”

“And if we can’t?”

He looked at her. “Then we’ll be taken out of the equation, and a whole lot more girls will go into it.”

“The equation?”

He nodded. “Ever ask yourself what it means when a corporation changes the name of its ‘personnel’ department to ‘human resources’? We’re not people to Mercator. We’re variables on a balance sheet. Until you tumbled onto this story, the paper had you in the assets column. But once you got onto this…”

“I became a liability.”

He sipped his coffee. “It’s as easy as that, when your personnel are just human resources. Move them from column A to column B. Eliminate as necessary.”

She shivered. “I don’t like the world you’ve lived in, Jerrod Westlake.”

“Neither do I.”

“Are you going to tell your office about this?”

“No.” Unequivocal and flat.

“I guess the FBI has human resources, too.” She settled back and sipped her coffee again. “So we can’t trust anyone. Hell, for all I know, you were sent here to gain my trust so I’d lead you right to my source. For all I know, you’re on cleanup detail.”

He laughed quietly. “Now you’re thinking like me.”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.”

“Actually, it is. You’ll live longer.”

No clouds marred the sky of Austin when they arrived. The heavens shone a breathtaking blue, and the air invigorated her with just a touch of winter’s chill. Erin could have wallowed in the lack of humidity.

Jerrod surprised her. She’d half expected him to put her into another hotel, but instead he left her on the St. Edward’s University campus in South Austin.

“It’s busy, and it’s public. Nobody will bother you here. And their library will have Internet access.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll be back in two hours. Will you be okay?”

“Sure.”

When he glanced into his rearview mirror, he saw her disappear into the library. Then he sped north to the Federal Building, already planning his story.

Inside the library, Erin found quite a few students working busily. Near the elevators, she found a pair of public computers that required no log-in, linked into the library database and the world beyond. While she couldn’t connect to her anonymous account, she could look up “white slavery” on Google and see what was out in the public domain.

While some dismissed it as myth and others as women knowingly entering the sex trade for its economic opportunities, the statistics were staggering. Whether abducted, enticed, purchased from their parents or simply drawn by the lure of leaving home and gaining some measure of social and psychological independence, women and teens entered the international sex market on a horrific scale. Most knew they—or the daughters they were selling—would soon be working as “bar girls,” “comfort women,” “escorts” or “house girls.” What they too often did not know was the degrading, violent and often deadly conditions under which that work was done.

Although the U.N. and many countries had funded countless studies and passed legislation to eliminate white slavery, the trade went on. In some societies it was accepted as a matter of course. Girls were imported, often as young as eleven or twelve years of age, and then schooled in the skills of their new profession. By their midteens they were ready for resale, often convinced that they were graduating into the adult world, a world where their bodies were fungible assets.

Waves of revulsion rolled through Erin as she read. Most repulsive of all was a question that slowly grew and began to gnaw at the back of her consciousness: what if these girls were not brainwashed, not victims, but self-motivated entrepreneurs who had chosen what they saw as their most accessible path to economic independence?

Some of the girls interviewed in the studies almost seemed to have been put forward as poster girls for prostitution, with gilded stories of having paid for college and opened doors that would otherwise have been forever barred by using their earnings. If she let herself see their perspective, it was almost as if prostitution was the female equivalent of military service: trading one’s youthful body for the rights and opportunities of adult citizenship.

But for every one of those stories, there was a story of another kind, of beatings, of rape, of feeling one’s heart and soul hollowed out, twenty minutes and as many dollars at a time, trying to pay off the “loan” that had brought the girl from Russia or Thailand, Burma or Brazil, until she realized that she could work the rest of her life and never be free of the debt…or the memories.

The more Erin read, the more convinced she became that the human species could rationalize away the most abhorrent evils imaginable. If this was the best humanity could do, she thought, perhaps a radical global climate change would not be a disaster at all.

Perhaps it would simply be Mother Earth washing herself in disgust.

Alton Castle was probably the least important accountant at Mercator Arms, and that was fine with him. He handled shipping invoices on classified projects. Like everything at Mercator, his job was compartmentalized, so that none of the junior employees would have a full picture of what they were doing on any contract. It was standard security doctrine, and Alton liked it that way.

In fact, he would have vastly preferred not to have learned what he knew.

When he’d joined Mercator seven years ago, he’d had ambitions. He’d seen his job as a stepping-stone to greater things. He’d poured heart and soul into his work, aware that accuracy was crucial on government contracts, aware that inspectors didn’t always give warning before they arrived. He’d wanted to ensure that Mercator was doing everything by the book, so Pentagon Inspector General teams would never have reason to challenge the company on anything he’d been involved in.

But he also had a daughter. Like many employees, he kept a picture of his wife and their child on his desk, a reminder that his job was a means and not an end in itself. First-time visitors to his office often commented on how beautiful both were, and his chest swelled with pride each time. They were beautiful. Stunningly, amazingly so.

He might be a mere “bean counter,” as other parts of the company referred to the huge staff of accountants and lawyers, but bean counting was essential to the company’s life. Absolutely essential, he often thought, for if the government noted any discrepancy in the billings, they might be audited, and while the audit continued, the government could refuse to pay the company’s bills on suspect contracts. He might be a cog in the wheel, but he was an important cog.

He sat in his small cubicle, matching bills of lading with contracts and invoices. He also maintained completion tallies, so he could report on the accounting status of each of the contracts he managed.

But he had been too diligent. He’d tumbled into a snake pit, one his conscience would not let him ignore. Every time he looked at the face of his daughter, he felt the jolt of his discovery anew.

“Alton?” One of the women in his group appeared at his doorway with an armful of papers. “These bills of lading are all verified as to contract. The preliminary invoices are clipped to them.”

“Thanks, Cecile. Just put them in my in-box.” He had to check over all the prelims, then make any necessary adjustments.

She did as asked, gave him a flirtatious smile and sashayed out of the cubicle.

He returned to the file he was pretending to examine and tried to calm himself. The increased security at the plant, begun only a few days ago, had unnerved him. As yet the changes were minimal, but given what he knew, and that he had shared it outside the company, he was sure that every new edict was aimed directly at him. He felt as if he were wearing a neon sign.

His computer dinged at him, and he turned to check his mail. His heart stopped.

We have reason to believe there has been a security violation at our Colorado Springs facility. All briefcases and purses are subject to search, and all telephone calls will be randomly monitored. Other measures may be instituted as deemed necessary.

Thank you for your cooperation.

Neils Ingram, Facility Security Officer

“Jesus,” he whispered, then looked swiftly around to ensure no one had heard. He skipped to the next e-mail, something less likely to give him a heart attack, and pretended to read it.

His heart slammed so hard and so loud he was certain someone else in the office must have heard it. But outside his cubicle, nothing seemed to change. Phones still rang, voices could be heard talking quietly, the copier thunked away in the nearby copy room.

The e-mail could be about something else. Of course it could. He hadn’t taken anything out of the facility. He hadn’t made a single phone call from the office or home about this. He hadn’t even used his own computer here or at home to send information.

If they had tumbled to the leak, there was no way they could trace it to him. No way. Besides, who would think that kind of a leak could issue from some cog in the accounting department?

Gradually calming, he forced himself to begin looking through the invoices on his desk, as if he were working industriously. He was safe. He had ensured that with his caution. Even his nosing around in inventory was so far in the past now that the computer audit trails had probably been erased. They would be investigating persons closer to the activity than a mere accountant.

A half hour later, he was almost back to normal. But he had decided he wasn’t going to do another thing to help that reporter. She had enough information now. Let her do her own work. He’d done his by tipping her off.

When Jerrod returned to pick up Erin, he found her sitting outside the library with a visible bubble of empty space around her. That was hardly surprising, given the angry scowl on her face. The students milling around had obviously seen it, too, and had instinctively kept her at a safe distance. He didn’t have that option.

“Come on,” he said. He figured she would tell him what had ticked her off if she wanted to.

When they reached the parking lot, she looked around. “Where’s your car?”

He pointed. “It’s the white one. I couldn’t take a Bureau vehicle for this. Especially since it has a LoJack and we could be tracked.”

“And yours?”

“Nothing trackable. Just your basic four-wheel-drive Suburban.”

This one was smaller, with a gray cloth interior, much better suited to the hot Texas sun. Not to mention that it was fully equipped with his collection of Willie Nelson CDs.

“What did you tell them?” she asked, as they pulled out of the campus lot and started north on Congress Avenue. Here Austin still reflected its small-town roots, from the days before zoning. Houses and businesses met and mingled, and the trees were old and grand.

“Who? You mean, my bosses?”

Her hands clenched into fists on her lap. “Who else would I mean? Did you tell them about me?”

“No. I’m not telling anyone anything they don’t absolutely need to know.”

“Then how can you get away?”

“I have a certain amount of leeway when I’m investigating something.” He braked at a stoplight and looked at her. “What has you so upset?”

“I was reading about white slavery.”

“And?”

She looked at him, and her blue eyes seemed to burn. “I’ve never seen anything so twisted in my life.”