by Niv Kaplan
Plans and travel arrangements made, Black Jack went home to pack. Natasha was off to the UN. Sam would meet up with Ortega in Spain.
The Center for Missing Children was abandoned of all occupants by two pm that afternoon. A meager bunch with the world’s problems on their shoulders, their efforts a drop in the sea, their reward: a reunited family’s joy and a glimpse of hope for parents like Sam Baker.
*****
Natasha took the Lexington Lines uptown and got off at 42nd street. She walked east toward the East River entering the vast United Nations complex at 43rd where she was led to the Romanian delegation’s quarters on one of the top floors. Manhattan’s breathtaking skyline came into view as she entered the smart conference room where three people sat waiting for her.
The two men got up to greet her. She knew one of them, Vassilli, a short stocky character, dressed in a gray suit and a yellow tie, balding with a round face and wire rimmed glasses. The other, Peka, was quite tall with short cropped blonde hair and strong handsome features. The woman was not introduced. She simply sat there behind a laptop ready to record every word.
Natasha gracefully shook their sweaty hands, ignoring the admiring looks and took a cushioned seat across the large oak conference table. She hoped she had not made it this far on looks alone.
“Miss Usher,” her contact, Vassilli, began in his heavy Romanian accent, “we’ve considered your request and are looking favorably to assist you provided two preliminary matters will be resolved.”
Natasha nodded. Focusing her large blue eyes at Vassilli, she kept silent. There was never, ever, anything accomplished in her neck of the woods without settling preliminary matters, primarily symbolic tokens of appreciation to any and all government officials involved. This, of course, would not be mentioned in the meeting, but would be arranged unofficially in the hallway or at a nearby coffee shop prior to her departure to Bucharest.
“Peka here will join you in Bucharest. He will have set up meetings with both the Ministry of Interior and the Romanian police, in which case you will be free to discuss any cooperation you deem necessary to help your cause, uh, our cause,” he corrected himself, smiling apologetically. “The illegal commerce of those wretched souls has got to stop,” he declared, trying to make up for his slip of the tongue. He meant, of course, the worldwide flesh trade going on with poor, young Romanian girls who respond to seemingly innocent ads in local newspapers and find themselves engaged in whoring in countries around the world.
The Center had received hundreds of calls for help from Romanian groups representing families who had lost children, especially young girls, to this whoring trade. In some cases, the families would find the child but be unable to bring her back home due to legal obligations signed by the girls who never knew what they were signing.
The problem had become so enormous that focusing on specific cases would have been a waste of the Center’s money and time. Natasha had long been trying to fight it at government level, hoping to convince personnel to draw up laws that would abolish any such criminal activity. The reluctance on the part of government officials was not initially evident but as time dragged on it became clear they would not or could not fight it, or that by the time they did, half the teenage population in Romania would have become whores.
In stepped UN officials, encouraged by Natasha to put pressure on the Romanian delegation to assist.
“For these things to happen, Miss Usher,” Vassilli continued, eyeing her keenly, “you must first withdraw your official complaint to the UN secretary, and you must send further notice that matters have been resolved to the best of your wishes.” By that he meant withdrawing the official complaint sent to the UN by the US State department, a letter drawn up by Natasha and signed by the Undersecretary of State.
Natasha sat up. She had been expecting them to ask her to withdraw the letter but she was not going to write anything to the contrary before matters really began to turn for the better. She smiled, having long learned it to be her most devastating weapon. “I’ll do that when you show me some progress,” she said quietly but forcefully.
“This is progress,” Vassilli argued tensely. “When were you ever allowed to meet with the Ministry or the police?”
“Let’s meet them first, then we can consider withdrawing our letter.”
“No deal, Miss Usher. I’m not at liberty to bring you over if that complaint is still present.”
Oh, the art of negotiation, she thought bitterly to herself. If only it was not at the expense of those poor girls.
“If I withdraw the letter before we go, you’ll have no incentive to oblige me. You’ll just walk me in circles and we’ll get nowhere.”
“You have the ambassador’s word,” Vassilli said, putting his sweaty palm on his chest.
At least he was smart enough not to give his own word, she thought. “Then you get me the ambassador’s written word and signature and I’ll withdraw my complaint.”
He looked hesitant. “I’ll need the endorsement letter as well,” he said.
She smiled again. “After we get the first girl home.”
He was not about to continue arguing. Getting the complaint letter off their back was progress enough for the moment. He was not ready to further push his luck. His own skin was at risk if the letter remained. Romania, as well as most Eastern European nations were barely surviving and no government was going to risk US sanctions on account of some poor wretched girls presumed to be whoring around the world.
He nodded silently and got up to go.
Looking sideways at the silent blonde man, Natasha added: “We’ll pay for your travel Mr. Peka, assuming you don’t insist traveling first class. I plan to spend a week there and I’ll expect you to stick with me. If more time is needed, we’ll stay just as long as we need.”
The blonde man nodded, smiling mischievously. Vassilli was at the door.
“Peka will escort you out Miss Usher. I’ll make sure the ambassador’s letter reaches you.”
Natasha smiled again. “Make sure you leave me enough time to withdraw my complaint before we take off.”
He nodded and hurried out the door. The blonde man stood and swift as a cat reached the door before Natasha could gather her things. He held the door as Natasha strode on out. The other woman remained, packing her laptop.
CHAPTER FOUR
Retired colonel Joe Harley, ex-Special Air Service of the British Army, ran the meanest, toughest covert operation under British law, with the roughest band of closely knit, ex-SAS men, ever assembled.
Neither the man, nor his unit, could be reached. No one would admit they existed.
Mai-Li had been after Harley’s unit for over a year since it was well known within Center walls that they were the only group with the means - and bold enough - to enter Kashmir. She needed to convince Harley to assist in flushing out and destroying the Lambda-B organization, thought to be responsible for a vast majority of child labor violations in South Asia.
Being SAS and personally acquainted with the colonel was only a pre-requisite to being accepted into Harley’s unit. Rumor had it that once over the rigorous training period he had designed and personally supervised, one was expected to perform a “wet” mission, on his own, in trouble spots such as Gaza, the West Bank, Sri Lanka, Southern Lebanon, Afghanistan, Iran and Iraq to name just a few.
Joe Harley would assign a particular task for the trainee and expect him to perform to the letter. Anything less than a perfect result would disqualify even the most experienced SAS person from Harley’s unit, which in three years of operation still had less than thirty members.
Such acceptance missions involved an array of covert operations behind hostile lines, no less dangerous or complicated than a typical Harley mission performed by the accepted members. It required sense, courage, extreme physical endurance, and above all loyalty to the plan and to the cause. The candidate had to stick with the plan no matter the obstacles. It was Harley’s opinion that not even veter
an SAS men, whom he, of course, held in the highest regard, were automatically suited for such jobs and one had to prove his worth in actions. These actions were, more often than not, inhuman and he had to check and make sure that even the toughest regiment men were up to the task.
Approached by the highest echelons of British Intelligence, Harley, then about to retire as SAS brigade commander, accepted the challenge put to him. Replacing his military allegiance with civilian spy rings, he was promised a free hand by government circles mandated by the Prime Minister’s office.
It was rumored he had unlimited budgets and a license to kill.
Mai-Li prevailed where even Black Jack and Sam failed, managing to secure fifteen minutes with the elusive legend during his annual visit to CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia.
A British avenue to Harley was out of the question since few in the UK knew - or were willing to admit - such a unit existed. After two trips to Whitehall, Mai-Li knew she was chasing ghosts so she turned to a CIA operative who had cooperated with her in Hong Kong. She had managed to verify Harley’s existence and the fact that once a year he visited Langley, the one and only place outside the UK he felt he owed for part of his own training.
Those visits, three to date, were focused and brief, no more than a full day, structured around exchange of operational views. In essence, Harley would lecture to a chosen few, describing some of his tactics and methods without disclosing any specific operational details.
Mai-Li’s fifteen minutes were secured by a CIA operative, one Ralph Page, who was amongst the chosen few attending the visit, a man who had personally trained Harley at Langley and had remained somewhat of a confidante.
Mai-Li’s Hong Kong acquaintance knew that man and asked for a favor. She was rushed to Langley to explain and convince Page the matter needed such extreme attention.
Page was convinced. The interview with Harley was finally attained
By the time she reached the building where Harley lectured, a good half hour before her scheduled meeting, the sun was low over the Potomac. The group dispersed shortly thereafter, and she entered to face the man who did not exist. He towered over her as he walked up to greet her, an impressive middle-aged figure with short cropped graying hair and piercing gray eyes, his posture radiating power and confidence.
“Joe Harley,” he said with characteristic British modulation, offering his hand. “A pleasure.”
“Mai-Li. The pleasure is all mine, Colonel,” Mai-Li said, clutching his hand, her small palm disappearing inside his huge hand. “Appreciate you taking the time.”
“Well Ms. Li, we don’t have much of it so I suggest we get to the point,” he said, inviting her to a seat facing his lecture podium, grabbing a chair for himself in the process.
He sat staring while she took her paperwork out of her bag.
“I represent the Center for Missing Children,” she began. “It’s a non-profit organization based in New York City. We work around the globe trying to assist parents in getting their missing children back.”
She paused, looking for a reaction, but received none.
“There are six of us, operating for several years now. Our success has been quite limited but we’re making progress.”
“Who’s funding you?” Harley suddenly asked.
“Various philanthropists and private organizations. Mainly people who have suffered through similar experiences.”
“Go on,” he commanded.
“We more or less divide the world among us and I have the Far East.”
“Makes sense,” he said, remaining serious.
“Pursuing a case early last year, a six-year-old Indian girl kidnapped to Pakistan, I made an astonishing discovery.”
His steel gray eyes were piercing her now.
“Following the case through Kashmir, I accidentally discovered a ring that sells children for hard labor.”
She paused for effect again then continued.
“The Indian girl I was after was not subject to it. She was kidnapped by a jealous husband, for spite, but a contact in Kashmir assumed I was after Lambda B, the ring, and revealed to me its business.”
“Colonel, there are hundreds of children over there under atrocious conditions, being sold like slaves to the highest bidder. They are being held in cages with little food and barely enough water to keep them alive.”
Her tormented voice reverberated around the lecture hall’s acoustics.
“We need to put an end to those horrors,” she pleaded softly. “And you’re the only one who can do it.”
He looked at her as if transfixed, and then woke out of his reverie.
“I’ll help you,” he said, as her eyes shot up to meet his serious gaze. “Under three conditions.”
She nodded eagerly.
“First I’ll need verification to this story. I’ll need hard evidence before I set a plan in motion. My unit is quite expensive to move and I cannot afford to move under false pretenses.”
Mai-Li handed him three black and white photos she had managed to smuggle out of Kashmir. Two showed children’s faces peering out of bamboo cages. The third showed a tattoo on a man’s arm showing the Greek symbol Lambda with an English B.
“That’s how they got their name,” she explained as he scanned the photo. “This man was responsible for locking the cage hatch once a child was pulled out.”
“My second condition,” he continued, “is funding. I’ll need you to guarantee the required funds since this will not be an activity funded by my government.”
“What type of funds are we talking about?” she asked hesitantly.
“That depends on the job Ms. Li,” Harley said and she hurriedly nodded.
“The third condition is a formal request by one of your appropriate government officials to my superiors requesting my services. The activity does not have to be specified, just the time frame.”
“Who did you have in mind?” she queried.
“CIA director, no less,” he concluded, then sprung off his chair. “I’ll give you the name of my superior once the first two conditions are met.”
“How will I reach you?”
“Get me hard evidence to London, end of next week. We’ll take it from there.”
He was out the door. She hurried to stay with him.
“Book into the Bailey’s Hotel on Gloucester Road,” he said walking briskly, “I’ll get in touch with you there.”
He stopped and turned to her. “This is where I disappear. Make sure this is legit and limit our acquaintance to yourself for now. Good day, Ms. Li.”
He shook her hand again and disappeared along the grassy path.
*****
Peka caught up with Natasha the day following their meeting at the UN, at a deli in the East Village, her regular lunch hangout. She was not surprised. Sitting on a barstool sipping lemonade with her back to the entrance, she saw him approach in the overhead mirror.
He slid an envelope along the bar and took the stool next to her. She nodded politely and took out the contents; a single sheet of paper with the Romanian UN delegation logo and a short notice by the Romanian ambassador assuring the US State Department will have his country’s full cooperation on the unfortunate matter of the “Flesh Trade” of young girls happening in his own country. Ms. Natasha Usher from the Center for Missing Children was the only person copied.
“Hard to believe it is we who have to twist your arms to resolve this matter,” she remarked, eyeing Peka accusingly.
“Some people would rather whore than starve,” he answered evenly.
“Would you?” she shot back.
“Depends on the circumstances,” he replied coolly.
“Would you send your daughter?” she added vehemently.
“Look lady, none of us think it right. No one in his right mind would overlook such horrors. It’s chaos over there now. Total anarchy. The system has collapsed. People are desperate. They do whatever they can think of to survive and crime is a very big pa
rt of that.”
She eyed him again suspiciously, unyielding.
He lowered his tone. “The government has little control, Natasha. Most officials are crooked. They also do whatever they can to survive.”
She sighed. There was no point arguing. It would take decades for Eastern Bloc countries to recover after the communist regime’s collapse. Some may never recover, she thought sadly, reflecting on her own country of birth, Russia, whose problems were mounting. She often wondered what had happened to her father.
She had not heard from him or of him since his failed attempt to kidnap her, an event she still vividly recalled. She was convinced her mother had had no word as well, though she suspected her mother would not inform her if she did.
She eyed Peka again. “You Romanian?” she suddenly asked. “You don’t look it.”
“My mother is. My father is Croatian.”
Natasha nodded. That explained his blonde hair and distinct features.
She got up to leave.
“Meet me at JFK. We’re flying Tarom,” she said, handing him an envelope she fished out of her bag.
“Tickets are inside.”
He slid off his stool, took the envelope and bent to whisper in her ear. “My sister is one of those girls we’re looking to save.”
She turned to him, stunned, but he was out the door before she could respond.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sam took an Iberia flight, New York JFK to Madrid. El Chino met him at the gate at Barajas. He had taken an earlier flight from Barcelona, following the Carlos Rio trail.
Sam was surprised to see him.
“Change of plans, Sammy. They never made it to Barcelona.”
“What happened?”
“They did not arrive,” Ortega admitted. “I waited around then I checked the passenger lists on the train. Nada. I finally called the travel agency direct, making up I was some distant relative looking for the family. They confirmed the family ordered tickets but never actually used them. It was too late to stop you from coming over.”